Aerei    of 


CRAQUE 

*  *  *  O'DOOM 


By 

MARY 

HARTWELL 

CATHERWOOD 


Author  of 

"The  Romance  of  Dollard," 
"The  Days  of  Jeanne  d'Arc," 
"The  Spirit  of  an  Illinois  Town/ 
"Old  Kaskaskia," 
"The  Lady  of  Fort  St.  John," 
"The  White  Islander." 


New  York 

AMERICAN  PUBLISHERS 

CORPORATION 

3JO-3J8  Sixth  Avenue 


Copyright,  1881.  by  J.  B.  LiPPiNCOTF  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I. — CHENOWORTH'S  DAMSEL 5 

II. — THE  CHENOWORTHS 14 

III.— "SEEDS  OF  TIME" 24 

IV. — PREPARATION 38 

V. — AN  ARRIVAL 48 

VI. — "  ISN'T  HE  HORRIBLE  ?" 55 

VII.— A  NABOB 60 

VIII.—"  WHY  DON'T  You  SHUDDER  ?"          ...    68 
IX. — THE  FLIGHT  OF  A  WHITE-HEAD        .        .        -73 

X.— "G:vB  ME  YOUR  HAND" 85 

XI. — THEIR  PLANS      .  .       .       .        .        .93 

XII.— TILLIE 104 

XIII. — THE  ODD  PRELIMINARY 116 

XIV. — "  BUT  AFTERWARD" 124 

XV. — "ARE  You  HAPPIER  Now?"      ....  132 

XVI. — FURTHER  ACQUAINTANCE 140 

XVII.—"  HE  is  TALL" 147 

XVIII.— LETTERS 158 

XIX. — RETURN  OF  A  NATIVE 172 

XX.— "YOUR  WEDDIN'-EXPENSES"       .        .        .        .183 

XXI. — A  BROTHER 197 

XXII.— Two  MEN 210 

XXIII.—"  PLACE  HANDS" 222 

XXIV. — "  You  OUGHT  TO  KNOW" 229 


2061719 


CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 


CHAPTER    I. 

CHENOWORTH'S  DAMSEL. 

LIKE  two  night-birds  who  had  strayed  into  the 
wrong  season,  a  pair  of  girls  flopped  about  on  the 
snowy  walk  or  huddled  together  outside  of  the 
Hill  house.  The  house  was  lighted.  They  could 
see,  through  one  uncovered  window,  which  ex- 
tended to  the  veranda  floor,  the  ruby  gates,  the 
cut-glass  candelabra,  and  the  luxurious  furniture. 
The  girls  were  on  the  west  side  of  the  house, 
which  was  a  large  square  structure  with  exten- 
sions at  the  rear. 

Below  the  hill  an  old  turnpike  town  straggled 
eastward,  its  lights  barely  twinkling  through  a  win- 
ter fog.  The  evergreens  and  old  forest-trees  all 
around  the  grounds  were  weighted  with  soft  snow, 
and  there  were  occasional  slides  from  the  roof 
which  dropped  with  a  half-liquid  splash. 

The  sound  of  a  piano  made  the  air  delicious 
to  these  girls  outside.  Light  falling  upon  them 
<*  5 


6  CKAQUE-a-DOOM. 

from  the  window  showed  that  one  wore  an  old 
shawl  over  her  head,  and  the  other  a  dirty  hood. 
The  dusk  blurred  their  outlines,  and  they  shrank 
farther  into  it  every  time  a  pair  of  waltzers  inside 
whirled  near  the  window. 

The  waltzing  pair  were  also  two  girls,  near  one 
age.  beautifully  draped,  glowing,  and  handsome. 
Another  young  lady,  in  an  outline  of  pearl-gray, 
could  be  seen  at  the  piano.  She  threw  her  hands 
about  with  abandon,  and  a  ring  or  two  flashed  in 
the  firelight. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  how  they  done  that."  said  the 
taller  of  the  girls  outside  anxiously.  "  Ketch  hold 
of  me  that  way,  Tillie,  and  le's  see  if  we  can't  do 
it." 

Tillie  obediently  caught  hold  of  her  sister,  but, 
being  much  smaller,  could  only  reach  her  elbows. 
Placing  their  toes  near  together,  they  spun  round 
with  the  motion  of  a  top. 

'  'Tisn't  the  way,"  pronounced  the  older  girl 
despondently.  "  I  could  do  it,  though,  just  as 
good  as  they  do,  if  I  knew  how  they  fixed  their 
feet." 

The  piano  and  the  waltzers  went  on.  Tillie  was 
not  willing  to  stop  :  she  spun  ahead  after  her  sister 
released  her,  inventing  steps  and  skips. 

"  Don't  go  so  close  to  the  window :  they'll  see 

Yc" 

Tillie  dropped  back.     The  piano,  as  the  waltzers 


CHENOWORTWS  DAMSEL.  j 

flagged  and  began  to  promenade  arm  in  arm, 
leaped  from  the  waltz  to  a  quick,  gay  melody,  and 
Tillie's  arms  and  feet  responded. 

"  Can  you  knock  that  tune  ?"  inquired  her  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend  in  the  old  shawl. 

The  child  "  knocked"  it  to  a  nicety.  Her  cow- 
hide shoes  were  dulled  by  the  snow,  but  their 
muffled  pat  was  true  to  the  music.  The  figure  she 
danced  could  not  be  called  by  any  name.  It  was 
not  a  jig  or  a  clog, — she  had  never  heard  of  such 
things, — nor  a  double-shuffle  such  as  plantation 
darkies  and  the  rustic  foot  everywhere  delight  in. 
It  was  a  skipping,  patting  dance  of  her  own.  She 
put  her  hands  on  her  hips :  from  them  downward 
she  was  electric  motion  and  flopping  scant  skirt; 
from  them  upward,  immobility  and  gravity.  Her 
breathing  became  audible,  but  she  knocked  away. 
Her  older  sister  sat  down  in  a  chair  they  had  with 
them,  and  watched  her.  She  knocked  herself 
into  the  bar  of  light  and  out  again.  She  was  in  a 
rapture  of  motion,  when  the  other  jumped  up  and 
a  gate  clanged. 

"  There's  Tom  Mills  comin'  from  down  town. 
Le's  hurry  in:  he'll  ketch  us." 

Tillie  immediately  took  hold  of  her  side  of  the 
chair,  and,  carrying  it  between  them,  they  hastened 
toward  the  kitchen-door  and  knocked. 

A  colored  man  opened  the  door.  Neal  had 
come  to  his  present  home  a  contraband,  sent 


g  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

North  by  Captain  Mills  at  the  close  of  the  war. 
From  a  shuffling  boy  he  had  grown  into  a  colored 
gentleman  who  conducted  the  gardening  and  the 
stables  at  the  Hill-house.  He  also  moved  the 
heavy  machinery  of  housekeeping :  fires  and  er- 
rands depended  on  him.  He  had  grown  to  his 
place,  and  ornamented  it  with  a  good-looking  black 
face  and  ceremonious  airs.  But  there  was  one 
thing  in  the  world  that  Neal  hated,  that  thing 
being  a  poor  white :  he  could  see  no  use  in  such  a 
person.  With  all  a  negro's  respect  for  what  he 
considers  magnificent,  and  contempt  for  small  re- 
sources, Neal  would  rather  have  been  kicked  by 
Captain  Mills — though  he  never  was — than  fairly 
spoken  by  any  of  the  Chenoworths.  The  Cheno- 
worths  were  the  "  lowest-down  lot"  he  knew. 
When  the  two  girls  on  the  step  faced  him  he  was 
stirred  by  an  antagonism  of  race  begun,  perhaps, 
generations  back  in  Tennessee,  before  a  Cheno- 
worth  had  come  to  Ohio. 

"  We  brought  home  the  chair  Aunt  Sally  Tea- 
garden  sent  to  daddy  to  get  a  bottom  put  in  it," 
said  the  elder  girl. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Neal,  receiving  it.  "  It's  just 
a  kitchen  chair.  Didn't  know  she's  your  aunt 
Sally." 

"  Folks  always  calls  her  so,"  returned  the  girl 
curtly. 

"  Didn't   know  she  was  aunt   to  Chinnyworth's 


CHENOWORTWS  DAMSEL.  g 

Damsel,"  persisted  Neal,  putting  the  chair  against 
the  wall  as  he  chuckled  sarcastically. 

"  My  name  ain't  Chinnyworth's  Damsel,"  said 
the  girl,  letting  the  shawl  drop  from  her  head  and 
standing  in  the  kitchen  before  her  sister.  There 
was  only  a  ruddy  light  of  wood-coals  in  the  stove, 
beside  which  Neal  had  been  basking.  The  cook 
was  down-cellar  with  the  light. 

"  That's  what  folks  always  calls  you,"  said  Neal, 
— "  Chinnyworth's  Damsel.  Ain't  got  no  other 
name,  have  ye  ?" 

"  It's  Tamsin,"  said  the  girl  with  a  heavy  intona- 
tion. She  was  scowling,  and  the  little  one,  taking 
the  cue  from  her,  was  scowling  also.  "  You  mind 
your  black  business." 

"  Them  is  mighty  ellygant  words.  Shows  your 
bringin'  up." 

Tamsin  looked  at  him  fiercely.  She  had  a  pair 
of  black  eyes  which  suggested  lancets.  The 
stove-light  threw  her  head  into  relief  against  the 
dark  door.  She  was  olive-colored,  with  flaxen 
hair.  All  the  Chenoworths  were  tow-headed,  but 
their  type  comprised  almost  invariably,  in  addi- 
tion, livid  skins  and  weak  blue  eyes.  The  younger 
sister  showed  the  impress  of  her  ancestry.  She 
was  yellow,  flaxen,  and  blue-eyed,  but  she  had  a 
mouth  and  jaw  which  gave  individuality  to  her 
little  face.  Her  lips  were  rosy,  and  she  had  rows 
of  small  shining  teeth  which  seemed  to  extend 


IO  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM 

from  ear  to  ear.  This  gave  her  a  gay,  good- 
natured  look.  She  held  to  her  sister's  dress  with 
one  claw-hand  and  looked  at  Neal  with  dislike. 

"  I'll  tell  Mis'  Teagard'  you  brought  the  chair," 
said  Neal  more  kindly.  "  1's  just  a-teasin'  you 
when  I  called  you  Chinnyworth's  Damsel." 

"  I'm  goin'  in  to  see  her  myself." 

"  Wouldn't,  now,"  argued  Neal.  "  They's  young 
ladies — visitors — in  there." 

"  S'pose  I'm  afraid  o'  seein'  them  ?  They  ain't 
no  better  than  7am." 

"  Phu  !"  ejaculated  Neal  behind  her  back. 

She  made  her  way,  without  any  announcement, 
through  the  half-lighted  dining-room,  with  Tillie 
beside  her,  and  presently  appeared  at  the  ruby 
grate,  where  Aunt  Sally  Teagarden  sat  alternately 
knitting  and  turning  the  leaves  of  a  book  on  a 
table. 

This  noble-looking,  portly  old  lady,  with  hair  as 
white  as  puffs  of  thistle-down  on  her  rounded  tem- 
ples, looked  up  quickly  from  her  treatise  and  gave 
the  two  girls  a  pleasant  "  Good-evening."  She  had 
a  peculiar  twitching  of  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
when  she  spoke,  not  at  all  unbecoming  to  her,  but 
of  which  she  was  quite  unconscious.  "  Come  up 
to  the  fire,  Tamsin  and  Tillie,"  she  said,  with  a 
twist  of  benign  expression. 

"  We  brought  home  your  cheer,"  said  Tamsin, 
spreading  her  fingers  to  the  fire. 


CHENO  WORTH'S   DAMSEL.  u 

"  Oh,  you  brought  home  that  chair  ?  Well, 
Thomas  is  in  the  other  room,  and  when  he  comes 
out  I'll  get  the  money  to  send  to  your  father.  My 
pocket-book  is  up-stairs." 

A  male  voice  and  the  voices  of  girls  sounded 
through  the  open  archway  of  a  parlor  which 
branched  from  the  side  of  this.  Tamsin  wanted 
to  see  the  young-lady  visitors,  but  in  order  to  do 
so  she  would  have  to  walk  boldly  up  the  room. 

"  Take  seats,"  said  Captain  Mills's  aunt ;  and 
Tamsin  sat  down  on  a  haircloth  cushion,  but 
Tillie  stood  by  the  mantel,  resting  one  foot  upon 
the  other. 

Aunt  Sally  glanced  through  her  glasses  at  the 
new  page  of  her  treatise.  "  I  am  just  reading  a 
little  in  Andrew  Jackson  Davis's  great  book  while 
I  knit,"  she  observed  benignly,  willing  to  share 
her  favorite  ism  with  anybody.  "  It's  a  wonderful 
book.  Remarkable  what  a  power  of  language  he 
has.  Has  your  mother  finished  reading  that  Ban- 
ner of  Light  I  sent  her  ?" 

"  She  pasted  it  up  on  the  wall,"  said  Tillie.  Her 
sister  was  listening  to  the  other  voices. 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  pushing  up  her  glasses, 
"  I  didn't  intend  that.  But  perhaps,"  with  energetic 
twists  of  her  mouth,  "  that  is  as  good  a  way  as 
any  to  keep  some  of  the  remarkable  seances  in 
her  mind.  There  was  a  beautiful  account  in  that 
paper,  given  by  Mrs.  Cora  L.  V.  Hatch,  of  com- 


!  2  CRA  Q  UE-  O'-DO  OM. 

muning  with  a  spirit  from  New  Jersey."  She  went 
on  rapidly,  pouring  Spiritualistic  lore  into  her 
hearers. 

Their  eyes  wandered  up  to  the  high  ceiling  and 
down  the  tinted  walls,  over  velvet  carpet  and 
painted  landscapes,  bronze  busts  and  a  cabinet- 
world  of  bric-a-brac.  Tillie  started  when  the 
mantel-clock  told  the  half-hour  with  a  chime  like 
music. 

"  Now,  aunt,"  said  Captain  Mills,  sauntering 
through  the  archway. — "Good-evening,"  in  short 
parenthesis  to  the  girls. — "  I  hear  the  Spiritualist 
drum  beating  a  rally." 

"  Thomas,"  replied  his  aunt,  "  I  never  expect 
you  to  be  a  believer.  The  construction  of  your 
mind  is  such  that  you  will  not  accept  the  most 
positive  proofs.  And  I  never  thrust  my  opinions 
on  anybody.  The  girls  here  are  waiting.  Have 
you  got  some  change  about  you  to  pay  for  reseat- 
ing a  chair?" 

The  captain  went  into  his  pockets,  and,  having 
ascertained  what  amount  was  wanted,  paid  it.  While 
he  did  so,  Tamsin  watched  him  with  speculative 
eyes.  He  was  her  single  type  of  a  gentleman. 

He  had  come  home  from  the  army  as  hairy  as  a 
monkey,  the  townpeople  said,  but  at  this  date  he 
was  a  smooth-shaven,  prematurely  iron-gray  man 
of  perhaps  forty,  with  a  thick  black  moustache  and 
smiling  eyes.  He  bore  a  family  resemblance  to 


CHENO WORTH'S  DAMSEL.  ,3 

his  aunt,  having  her  smoothly-rounded  temples 
and  high-arched  head.  The  benignity  displayed 
in  her  face  became  graver  in  his. 

"Are  you  busy  at  anything,  now,  Tamsin  ?" 
inquired  Aunt  Sally. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  replied  the  girl,  fingering  the 
money  in  the  corner  of  her  shawl. 

"  Then  you  might  come  here  and  help  about 
the  house  while  we  have  company.  There  are  a 
good  many  things  up-stairs  and  around  that  need 
attention  when  the  whole  house  is  in  use.  I 
thought  about  sending  down  to  see  if  your  mother 
could  let  you  come." 

"  She  won't  care.  Have  you  got  a  good  many 
visitors?" 

"  Three  young  ladies, — the  captain's  cousin  and 
two  of  her  friends.  They  came  to  spend  the  holi- 
days with  us.  Very  well.  In  the  morning,  then." 

"  I  can  come  back  to-night,  after  I  take  Tillie 
home." 

Captain  Mills  was  sauntering  off  through  the 
archway. 

"  If  you  are  not  afraid  of  the  dark — "  suggested 
Aunt  Sally. 

Chenoworth's  daughter  smiled  slowly.  What 
difference  did  it  make  to  anybody  whether  she  was 
afraid  of  the  dark  or  not  ?  "I  can  run  right  quick." 

"  Well,  you  might  come  back  to-night,  then." 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE   CHENOWORTHS. 

TAMSIN  and  her  sister  ran  down  the  hill,  crossed 
the  pike,  and  walked  along  the  middle  of  the 
road  which  led  toward  their  back-street  residence. 
Some  dogs  jumped  out  of  the  enclosures  around 
large  houses  and  barked  at  them.  Though  there 
was  little  traffic  on  the  old  canal  at  that  time,  Tillie 
was  moved  to  point  at  a  light  far  off  floating  se- 
renely through  the  fog  and  say,  "  There  goes  a 
boat." 

"  Tisn't !"  observed  Tamsin,  hugging  her  shawl ; 
"  must  be  a  lantern  around  the  tavern." 

They  came  to  their  home,  standing  dejected,  un- 
painted,  and  humble  in  a  wilderness  of  dried  corn- 
stalks which  rustled  sadly  in  every  breath  of  air, 
their  dull  bleached  outlines  suggesting  ranks  of 
diminutive  ghosts. 

Tamsin  opened  the  door  and  looked  in  at  a 
scene  she  had  never  loved.  The  interior  was  bare 
and  coarse  and  smelled  of  onions.  There  was  the 
open  fire,  but  its  light  was  dull.  Her  mother  sat 
mending  stockings  by  a  tallow  candle ;  her  father 
stooped  over  the  hearth  smoking.  He  was  a  de- 


THE   CHENOWORTHS.  15 

cent  old  man  who  seemed  to  have  given  his  family 
up  as  a  hard  problem.  Sarah  Jane  sat  there  hold- 
ing her  baby.  Arthur  had  come  in,  and  John  and 
George  had  for  once  forborne  to  go  down  town, 
and  were  growling  at  each  other.  All,  excepting 
Sarah  Jane,  looked  clay-colored  and  bleached,  as 
if  the  weather  had  held  them  at  its  mercy  for  gen- 
erations. 

Tamsin  disliked  her  family.  She  had  no  filial 
affection  for  her  parents.  Their  apathy  and  gen- 
eral thriftlessness  roused  unexpressed  indignation 
in  her.  She  felt  her  existence  as  an  indignity 
which  they  had  cast  upon  her.  She  compared 
them  with  people  whom  she  considered  admirable, 
and  silently  hated  them.  She  hated  the  two  lazy 
boys  who  crowded  her  in  the  humble  house.  Her 
scorn  was  of  the  high-bred  sort  which  shows  no 
outward  sign  but  indifference.  When  they  ate 
their  food  she  despised  their  loud  chewing,  their 
greedy  dipping  into  dishes.  When  they  lounged 
down  town  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  she 
despised  them  for  following  the  gypsy  instincts  of 
their  blood,  and  avoiding,  or  accomplishing  nothing 
by,  labor.  She  was  a  magazine  of  silent  rebellions 
and  hatreds.  No  empress  ever  had  a  mightier 
pride  or  stronger  will.  The  spirit  which  her  peo- 
ple had  lacked  for  generations  was  perhaps  con- 
centrated in  her.  She  resented  all  her  conditions 
of  life.  Under  its  pressure  she  was  old.  In  a  less 


l6  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

aggressive  way,  she  was  as  cynical  as  Timon.  A 
reticent  and  dignity-loving  nature  thus  became  se- 
cretive. But,  while  silently  denying  the  stock  from 
which  she  sprang,  this  girl  had  been  known  to 
scratch  her  school-fellows  for  disrespect  toward 
the  name  of  Chenoworth.  It  seemed  to  her  secret 
consciousness  the  last  humiliation  of  all  that  folks 
should  ever  know  how  she  despised  the  Cheno- 
worths  herself.  There  was  vast  endurance  in  her. 
Natural  girlish  delicacy  and  sensitiveness,  which  in 
her  were  extreme,  had  long  since  protected  them- 
selves by  a  thick  shell.  At  that  time  she  had  no 
room  for  more  than  one  strong  affection  :  she  loved 
her  youngest  sister,  and  she  loved  nothing  else. 

Tillie  pulled  off  her  hood  and  approached  the 
fire,  but  Tamsin  merely  stood  and  announced  that 
she  was  going  back. 

"  I  wouldn't  work  for  them  proud  things,"  said 
Sarah  Jane,  who  had  an  aquiline  nose  and  lines 
which  made  a  triangle  of  her  chin. 

Mrs.  Chenoworth  had  nothing  to  say :  her 
children  always  did  as  they  pleased.  She  looked 
up,  and  observing  that  her  nephew  Arthur  was 
about  to  leave  the  house  also,  suggested  plain- 
tively, "  Stay  longer,  Arter." 

"I  guess  I'll  walk  along  a  piece  with  Tamsin," 
said  Arthur. 

"  I  guess  you  won't!"  retorted  Tamsin  scornfully. 
"  I  don't  want  you  along  of  me." 


THE   CHENOWORTHS.  \>j 

"  You'll  get  over  your  spiteful  ways,  miss,"  re- 
marked Sarah  Jane, "  when  you've  seen  the  trouble 
I've  seen." 

Tillie  clasped  the  black-eyed  alien  round  the 
waist,  and  they  looked  most  confidingly  into  each 
other's  eyes. 

"Come  up  to-morrow,"  said  Tamsin. 

"  I  will,"  replied  Tillie. 

"  Don't  kick  the  kivver  off  to-night.  You  might 
git  a  bad  sore  throat  again." 

"  Then  mammy'd  make  me  poultice  it,"  laughed 
Tillie. 

"  I  s'pose,"  remarked  Arthur  as  he  left  the  door 
behind  Tamsin,  "  you  wouldn't  have  anything 
against  me  walkin'  on  the  other  side  of  the  road 
from  you  if  I's  goin'  the  same  way  ?" 

She  did  not  reply  or  wait  to  see  which  side  he 
chose.  Her  shawled  head  flitted  away  from  him, 
though  he  could  hear  heavy  shoes  beating  the 
snow  till  their  rush  died  in  the  distance. 

As  Tamsin  ran  up  the  hill  the  oldest  of  the 
young-lady  guests  was  holding  a  skein  of  yarn  for 
Aunt  Sally  to  wind,  and  saying,  while  Captain 
Mills  and  the  girls  were  occupied  with  themselves, 
that  she  did  wish  Aunt  Sally  would  tell  her  some 
of  her  recollections  or  experiences.  The  girls  had 
said  she  knew  charming  Irish  fairy-stories. 

"  The  wee  folk,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  pulling  off  a 
long  thread. 


jg  CRAQUE-0'-DOOM.> 

Yes,  but  Miss  Rhoda  Jones  preferred  to  hear 
about  real  folks, — the  people  in  this  little  town,  for 
instance.  Mrs.  Teagarden  must  know  all  about 
them, — their  peculiarities  and  trials  and  unwritten 
histories. 

Aunt  Sally  knew  that  Miss  Jones  was  what  is 
called  a  "  writer,"  and  that  this  was  a  hook  thrown 
out  for  a  good  catch  of  "material;"  but  she  in- 
clined toward  furnishing  material.  She  was  con- 
vinced that  if  she  had  not  lived  a  busy  practical 
life  she  would  have  been  literary  herself.  Andrew 
Jackson  Davis  and  Mrs.  Cora  L.  V.  Hatch  were 
dearer  to  her  because  they  "  wrote."  There  had 
been  one  lovely  school-girl  niece  in  the  family. 
Captain  Tom's  sister,  who  died  at  her  blossoming, 
but  whose  poems  were  turning  yellow  in  Aunt 
Sally's  treasure-box.  How  could  she  look  other- 
wise than  affectionately  on  an  author,  when  her 
namesake-girl  had  been  prevented  only  by  death 
from  taking  the  lead  in  letters  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  with  an  energetic  pre- 
liminary twist  of  the  mouth,  "  most  of  the  trials 
of  the  people  about  here  are  caused,  as  they 
usually  are,  I  have  observed,  by  their  own  thrift- 
lessness  or  carelessness.  The  Cheno worth  girls 
came  in  here  awhile  ago,  and  I  was  reading 
Andrew  Jackson  Davis's  book :  someway,  I  got 
to  thinking  of  the  strength  of  hereditary  tenden- 
cies." 


THE    CHENOWORTHS.  ig 

"  Chenoworth  ?"  questioned  Miss  Jones  as  she 
turned  her  head  for  the  .passage  of  the  yarn. 
"  That's  rather  a  pretty  name, — much  higher- 
sounding  than  Jones." 

"  The  people  who  know  them  wouldn't  say  so," 
continued  Aunt  Sally,  always  with  the  beneficent 
twitching.  "  It's  a  name  that  means  around  here 
everything  base  and  good-for-nothing.  I  have 
known  the  Chenoworths  from  rny  childhood,  and 
I  never  saw  one  of  them  amount  to  anything,  ex- 
cept one  that  died  in  Tom's  company  during  the 
war,  and  he  was  a  notorious  thief  before  he  'listed. 
But  it's  a  shame  to  bring  up  charges  against  the 
country's  dead,"  Aunt  Sally  admonished  herself 
solemnly.  "  He  was  sent  home  in  his  box  after 
Lookout  Mountain  :  Tom  saw  that  he  was  sent 
home." 

"  There  are  girls  in  the  family,  you  said  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes :  there  is  a  large  connection  of  them, 
— all  about  alike,  except  that  the  younger  ones 
seem  to  grow  worse  than  the  old  ones.  I  heard  it 
said  there  was  a  solid  county  of  them  in  Tennes- 
see before  they  moved  to  Ohio.  Always  living 
from  hand  to  mouth,  the  men  usually  with  no 
trades  or  business  of  any  kind,  and  the  women 
struggling  to  support  prolific  families." 

"  Poor  things !" 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  Such  people  are  always  multi- 
plying their  helpless  offspring.  I  have  thought 


20  CKAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

sometimes  Tamsin  might  turn  out  a  little  different 
from  the  rest,  and  I  do  what  I  can  for  her  and  en- 
courage her;  but,"  the  old  lady  paused  in  her 
winding  to  say  impressively,  "  hereditary  tenden- 
cies are  stronger  than  life  itself.  Her  history  was 
all  written  down  before  she  was  born." 

"  Tamsin  ?"  murmured  Miss  Jones. 

"  Yes.  She  was  here  with  her  little  sister  awhile 
ago.  I  feel  sorry  for  that  girl.  Nobody  knows 
any  harm  of  her,  but  what  good  can  she  ever 
come  to?" 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  The  name  of  the  family  will  drag  her  down. 
Good  blood,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  who  saw  it  coursing 
gently  through  the  thin  veins  on  her  very  round 
and  handsome  wrist,  "  is  the  best  inheritance  a 
child  can  have.  But  where  a  stock  has  sunk  be- 
low respectability  as  far  back  as  you  can  trace  it, 
what  can  you  expect  of  it  ?" 

"  How  old  is  this  Tamsin  ?" 

"  About  fifteen  or  sixteen,  I  should  think." 

"  Pretty  ?" 

"  Not  to  my  notion.  She  had  a  sister  who  was 
called  rather  pretty, — Sarah  Jane.  Sarah  Jane 
went  up  to  the  capital  to  learn  millinery,  and  she's 
just  home  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  trying  to  give 
it  away  to  somebody  to  raise,  I  hear.  There  was 
poor  Mary.  She  was  the  oldest  girl  of  the  set, 
and  she  did  real  well  for  a  while.  One  of  our  rich 


THE    CHENOWOR7HS.  2l 

farmers'  wives  took  her  and  made  a  daughter  of 
her;  and  I  have  always  thought  it  was  fate  against 
the  poor  child,  and  not  her  fault,  that  she  didn't  do 
better.  The  family  she  lived  with  made  every- 
thing of  her.  Mary  was  good-looking, — that  is, 
as  near  good-looking  as  I  ever  saw  a  Chenoworth. 
She  had  a  beau,  and  I  think  he  disappointed  her. 
It  would  have  been  a  fine  match  for  her,  and  she 
certainly  loved  him.  But  he  went  off,  and  she 
turned  and  married  one  of  her  trifling  cousins : 
the  Chenoworths  intermarry  to  that  degree  it 
seems  as  if  they  can't  mate  with  anybody  outside 
of  their  own  stock.  So  there  the  poor  thing  is, 
tied  down  for  life,  with  half  a  dozen  miserable 
little  ones  to  follow  her  around  and  no  living  pro- 
vided for  them.  The  farmer's  family  were  so  in- 
dignant at  her  throwing  herself  away  that  they 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  her." 

"Poor  thing!" 

"  Yes.  And  there  was  the  oldest, — Sam.  He 
married  Mary  Mann.  He  was  a  poor  half-witted 
thing,  and  she  lived  a  jade's  life;  and  finally  she 
took  poison  one  night,  and  he  lay  there  drunk  be- 
side her,  and  she  told  him  what  she  had  done  and 
begged  him  to  help  her.  While  she  groaned  and 
cried,  '  Well,'  said  he, 'you  oughtn't  to  took  it!' 
and  went  to  sleep.  When  he  waked  in  the  morn- 
ing she  was  cold." 

Miss  Jones  hid  her  face  on  her  arm.     She  saw 


2  2  CRA  Q  UE-  ff-DO  OM. 

the  dying  and  helpless  woman,  and  felt  the  tragedy 
through  every  nerve. 

"  The  second  boy  is  in  the  county  jail  for  steal- 
ing, and  the  two  young  ones  are  common  loafers. 
Old  Mr.  Chenoworth  is  a  harmless  creature,  so  far 
as  I  know,  and  his  wife  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  lazy 
woman,  but  probably  in  the  generation  before  him 
are  to  be  found  the  seeds  which  ripened  in  this." 
The  chronicler  ended  with  a  meditative  twitch  of 
her  mouth. 

"  That  poor  girl !"  mused  the  other. 

"  Tamsin  ?  Sometimes,  I  think  there  is  some- 
thing in  Tamsin." 

"  Why  couldn't  she  study?  Why  couldn't  she 
make  a  woman  of  herself?" 

Aunt  Sally  shook  her  wise  head :  "  It  isn't  in 
the  stock  to  take  to  education :  they  are  all  ig- 
norant. Once  in  a  while  I  send  a  copy  of  the 
Banner  of  Light  there,  but  I  doubt  if  any  of  them 
read  it." 

"  Or  if  she  had  some  talent  that  would  lift  her 
up?" 

"  Tamsin  hasn't  any  gifts  out  of  the  common, 
that  I  ever  heard  of.  She's  just  a  good  ordinary 
girl." 

Rhoda  Jones  shook  her  head  slowly,  having  this 
melancholy  figure  in  her  mind:  "It  is  like  living 
under  some  crushing  weight,  or  in  swamps  where 
the  live-oak  moss  would  make  one  want  to  com- 


THE   CHENOWORTHS.  2$ 

mit  suicide, — worse  than  being  a  homeless  and 
kinless  orphan.  If  she  were  an  orphan  without 
relatives,  somebody  would  take  pity  on  her,  but, 
as  she  has  too  many  relatives,  they  despise  her." 

"  She'll  probably  marry  her  cousin  Arthur,  a 
hulk  of  a  fellow;  but  he  hasn't  much  harm  in  him 
— or  anything  else.  Some  one  told  me  he  was 
hanging  after  her.  And  she'll  go  the  way  of  the 
rest  of  them." 

The  dining-room  door,  which  had  stood  ajar, 
moved  silently  back,  and  Tamsin  came  in  with  her 
shawl  around  her  shoulders. 


24  CX A  Q  UE-  ff-D  OO.lf. 

CHAPTER    III. 

"SEEDS  OF  TIME." 

BOTH  speakers  looked  at  her  with  a  start,  but 
Tamsin's  face  gave  no  sign  of  what  she  had  heard. 
She  did  not  meet  their  eyes,  but  went  and  sat  down 
some  distance  from  them  in  the  unconscious  dig- 
nity of  loneliness.  Rather  than  have  them  know 
that  she  had  heard  and  was  tormented  by  this 
formulated  statement  from  other  tongues  of  her 
own  nebulous  convictions,  she  would  have  hugged 
her  blistering  shame  in  secrecy  if  it  killed  her. 

Aunt  Sally  felt  disturbed,  and  the  fountain  of 
her  kindness  flowed :  "  Come  nearer  to  the  fire, 
Tamsin.  Ain't  you  cold?" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Is  it  thawing  out- doors?"  inquired  Miss  Rho- 
da,  wishing  to  open  communication  between  this 
girl  and  herself. 

"Toler'ble  soft."  She  sat  as  immovable  as  an 
Indian,  her  eyelids  lowered. 

Rhoda  scanned  her  with  two  or  three  keen 
looks,  and,  finding  this  scrutiny  apparently  unno- 
ticed, studied  her  with  a  silent  gaze,  turning  her 
skein-supporting  hands  now  to  this  side,  now  to 


"SEEDS   OF  TIME."  2$ 

that.  "  There  is  great  force  in  her,"  thought  Miss 
Jones, — "  an  individuality  which  is  going  to  assert 
itself.  She  looks  good :  the  oval  of  her  cheeks  is 
splendid.  How  do  people  who  rarely  have  enough 
to  eat  get  up  that  curve  and  rich  olive  color  ?  Black 
eyebrows  and  eyelashes  and  light  hair !  A  reticent 
expression,  but  one,  also,  that  seems  to  be  absorb- 
ing everything  around." 

Aunt  Sally  wound  the  last  end  of  yarn  upon  her 
ball.  "  Now,  Tamsin,"  said  she,  rising,  "  you  come 
with  me  up-stairs,  and  I'll  show  you  what  to  do 
there." 

Captain  Mills  and  the  girls  were  very  merry  in 
the  other  parlor,  and  after  gazing  at  the  fire  awhile 
Miss  Rhoda  joined  them.  At  eleven  o'clock  he 
bade  them  good-night. 

Aunt  Sally  always  retired  at  nine,  after  ordering 
breakfast  and  seeing  to  the  fastening  of  all  the 
doors.  She  left  Tamsin  the  choice  of  going  to 
bed  at  that  time  or  sitting  up  until  the  young  la- 
dies had  gone,  to  see  that  the  fires  were  well  down 
and  read  Andrew  Jackson  Davis.  Tamsin  took 
her  place  with  no  light  but  that  of  the  grate,  and 
without  Andrew  Jackson  Davis,  on  a  small  sofa 
beside  the  arch  connecting  the  parlors,  where  the 
group  of  young  ladies  could  not  see  her.  Her  ob- 
ject was  to  look  at  them  as  much  as  she  pleased. 
As  to  their  talk,  she  did  not  think  of  overhearing 
it,  yet  when  she  began  to  notice  it  she  listened 
B  3 


26  CA'AQUE-  O'-DOOM. 

keenly.  Jennie  Mills,  who  was  really  a  beautiful 
brown  girl,  pleased  her  eye.  Louise  Latta.  a  very 
sweet-natured  blonde,  was  pronounced  by  Tamsin 
the  image  of  pride,  because  she  had  pretty  airs  and 
turns  of  the  head  and  a  fine  clock-stockinged  and 
slippered  foot  resting  on  the  fender.  The  Cheno- 
worth  doubted  not  they  all  three  considered  her  as 
the  dirt  under  their  soles.  She  put  out  her  own 
foot  and  looked  furtively  at  it.  The  leather  was 
heavy  around  its  shape,  and  that  looked  big  com- 
pared to  the  one  on  the  fender.  Jennie  Mills  threw 
up  her  hands  to  exclaim,  "  Oh,  girls !"  and  Tamsin 
looked  at  her  own  hands, — not  white  and  sparkling 
with  ornaments,  but  chapped  and  red.  More  at- 
tractive to  her  than  the  others  was  Rhoda  Jones, 
the  wearer  of  the  pearl-gray  dress,  who  had  played 
the  piano.  How  wonderful  it  must  be  to  play  the 
piano !  She  seemed  to  be  a  person  who  could  do 
anything  she  wished. 

Tamsin  tried  to  detect  how  the  other  two  "  did" 
their  hair.  There  they  all  three  sat  toasting  them- 
selves by  the  deeply-red  fire,  saying  they  must  go 
to  bed,  but  lingering  to  tell  a  story  or  a  joke. 
What  good  times  rich  folks'  girls  had  ! 

"  If  we  go  up-stairs,"  said  Jennie^  "  there  are 
only  the  registers,  and  of  course  the  furnace-fire 
must  be  low :  so  let's  bask  as  long  as  we  can.  Oh, 
how  I  should  love  to  spend  every  winter  in  Florida ! 
Cold  weathei  kills  me." 


"SEEDS   OF  TIME."  2? 

"  You  ought  to  marry  a  Southerner,  Jen,"  sug- 
gested Louise. 

"And  have  the  yellow  fever  every  summer? 
You  horrid  thing!" 

"  Oh,  you  could  spend  the  summers  with  us." 

"  How  silly  you  girls  would  be  to  think  of 
marrying  at  your  age  !"  exclaimed  Rhoda. 

"  We  don't  think  of  it :  it's  the  farthest  possible 
thing  from  our  thoughts.  But  look  here,  Rhoda 
Jones :  we're  twenty-two, — that  is,  I  am,  and  Lou 
is  going  to  be  soon.  Gracious  !  we're  pretty  near 
old  maids!" 

"  Old  maids,"  said  Rhoda  scornfully,  "  are  things 
of  the  past." 

"  I  know  they  are,"  said  Louise :  "  they  feel  it 
themselves." 

"  No,  they  don't.     Come  to  that,  I'm  one." 

"  You  don't  look  a  day  older  than  we  do, 
Rhode." 

"  Why,  certainly  I  do  !  I've  years  of  experience 
and  thought  that  you  don't  know  anything  about. 
But  I  tell  you  the  scarecrow  old  maid  is  a  thing  of 
the  past :  it  was  set  up  to  frighten  silly  women 
away  from  the  fields  of  independence.  The  woman 
of  to-day,  when  she  gets  ready  to  marry,  marries,  and 
it  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  her  whether  she's 
twenty-five  or  a  hundred.  We  don't  live  in  the 
hard  conditions  that  our  grandmothers  lived  in. 
We  aren't  old  at  forty  any  more;  our  bodies  ripen 


28  CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 

on  instead  of  withering.  We  learn  how  to  take 
care  of  them  and  how  to  bring  ourselves  in  happy 
relations  to  society,  and  we  get  a  few  dabs  of  art- 
knowledge;  and  literature  is  a  mighty  preservative 
of  the  tissues.  When  I  was  fifteen  I  was  a  skinny 
little  thing;  but  look  here."  She  held  up  one 
half-revealed  plump  arm,  and  her  face  seemed  to 
sparkle.  "  I  just  learned  how  to  live,  and  I'm 
going  to  live — all  over,  every  faculty  of  me — as 
many  days  as  are  granted." 

"  Now,  come,  Rhode,"  coaxed  Jennie,  catching 
the  uplifted  hand :  "  do  tell  us  if  there's  anything 
in  this  splendid  turquoise  ring." 

"  My  finger,  as  you  see." 

"  If  /  were  engaged,"  remarked  Louise  in  an 
injured  tone, — "  and,  mind,  I  don't  say  I  ain't,  but — 
I  should  tell  my  friends  about  it  some  time,  espe- 
cially my  real  old  friends." 

"  Well,  you  two  ancient  goddesses — " 

"  Ah,  Rhoda,  you  are !" 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Because  I  expect  to  be  mar- 
ried before  very  long." 

The  other  girls  uttered  little  squalls  and  crowded 
closer  to  her :  "  Oh,  tell  us  all  about  it.  Is  he  light 
or  dark?  Is  he  real  fascinating?  Oh,  what  is  his 
name  ?  Is  it  Smith  ?  Is  it  some  gentleman  where 
you  are  living  now?  Oh,  Rhoda  Jones,  to  think 
we  have  known  you  all  our  lives  and  don't  know 
who  you  are  going  to  marry !" 


"SEEDS   OF   TIME."  2C) 

"  I  meant  to  tell  you  when  I  got  around  to  it. 
Why,  what's  the  use  of  making  such  a  fuss  about 
it  ?  Marriage  is  only  an  incident  in  men's  lives, 
— an  important  one,  of  course, — and  why  should  it 
be  more  in  ours?" 

"  Mercy,  Rhode !  you're  getting  to  be  strong- 
minded.  But,  oh,  do  tell  us  his  name  !" 

"  His  name  is  Mr.  Burns." 

"  Burns  ?     That  sounds  nice." 

"  Of  course  it  does :  it  is  nice.  I  shan't  be 
Burne-Jones,  but  Jones-Burns.  He  is  a  most 
agreeable  old  gentleman." 

"  Old  !"     Both  girls  emitted  a  low  shriek. 

"  Why,  certainly !  You  don't  think  I  would 
marry  a  boy,  do  you  ?  Don't  you  know  I'm 
thirty  ?  but  I  think  I  shall  stay  twenty-nine  until 
after  the  wedding, — not  that  I  am  afraid  of  thirty, 
but  twenty-nine  seems  a  more  interesting  age  to 
be  married  at.  Yes,  and  the  top  of  his  head  is 
bald." 

"Bald!"  Both  girls  emitted  another  choral 
shriek. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  make  a  fuss.  He  has  a  very 
nice  fringe  above  his  ears  and  around  the  back  of 
his  head." 

"  And  is  he  rich  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course    he    is    rich.     Do  you  think  I 
have  been  poor  and  deserving  all  my  life  to  bestow 
myself  on  a  poverty-stricken  husband  at  last?" 
3* 


30  CRAQVE-ff-DOOM. 

Tamsin  was  listening  intently  to  these  revelations 
from  a  higher  sphere.  She  leaned  farther  forward 
to  ponder  on  the  speaker.  Was  that  proud,  com- 
manding, well-dressed  girl  poor?  Here  she  was, 
a  guest  in  a  rich  man's  house  and  going  to  marry 
another  rich  man.  The  Chenoworth  division  of 
all  society  was  simply  into  rich  and  poor.  The 
rich  were  favored  in  every  way;  the  poor  were 
necessarily  down-trodden.  How,  then,  was  that 
girl  different  from  Tamsin  Chenoworth,  being  poor, 
according  to  her  own  testimony  ?  In  a  dim  way 
Tamsin  comprehended  that  there  was  a  strong  in- 
dividual spirit  in  that  pearl-colored  figure,  and  that 
(  education  was  a  species  of  riches. '  Her  mental  re- 
ceptiveness  was  roused  to  the  fullest  action.  Rhocla 
loomed  before  her  suddenly  a  vast  example.  What 
Rhoda  said  became  seed,  which  she  strewed  plen- 
teously  without  knowing  it. 

"  I  used  to  think,"  exclaimed  Jennie,  "  that  you 
and  Cousin  Tom  might  make  a  match  some 
time." 

"  Captain  Tom  ?  I  don't  see  how  you  could 
think  that,  when  we've  always  been  such  excellent 
friends." 

Louise  looked  up  from  the  grate  with  a  pensive 
expression  :  "  Are  you  very  much  in  love  ?" 

"  With  my  future  prospects  ?  Yes,  I  am.  I'm 
going  to  have  everything  I  ever  wanted,  and  a 
comfortable  husband  who  knows  my  untamed 


"SEEDS   OF  TIME."  3! 

ways  and  won't  thwart  me."  Rhoda  took  out  a 
great  many  hair-pins  and  let  her  mass  of  hair  come 
down  to  her  waist  while  she  declaimed  to  the  two 
fair  faces  near  her.  "  If  there  is  anything  on  earth 
I  am  sick  and  tired  of,  it  is  all  this  nonsense  about 
sentiment.  Now,  there  you  sit,  both  of  you, 
stuffed  full  of  love-stories  without  a  grain  of  prac- 
tical sense  in  one  of  them,  expecting  a  knight,  if 
only  in  the  shape  of  dear,  simple  Davy  Crockett, 
to  ride  up  and  carry  you  off.  When  you  see  that 
very  excellent  backwoods  play — it  has  literary 
merits — don't  your  heart-strings  ring  to  Davy's 
rough  rendering  of '  Young  Lochinvar'  ?  '  I  want 
my  bride,'  says  the  knight. — 'Git  out!'  says  the 
dad. — '  Whoop !'  says  the  knight ;  and  he  disap- 
pears from  the  scene  with  the  willing  young 
lady.  That's  all  very  entertaining,  but  /like  civil- 
ization. Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  on  it,  I  like 
luxury." 

So  did  Tamsin,  though  she  had  never  defined  her 
delight  in  beautiful  and  sumptuous  surroundings. 

"And  I  can't  do  without  it,"  continued  Rhoda. 
"  I  like  the  things  money  will  buy,  and  I've  never 
had  enough  to  buy  them.  In  the  Middle  Ages, 
when  everybody  was  fighting  against  everybody 
else,  the  strongest  baron  was  the  safest  man  to 
have  for  a  husband.  Money  is  the  feudal  power 
to-day ;  the  strongest  baron  now  is  the  man  who 
can  make  the  most  money." 


3  2  CRA  Q  UE-  ff-DO  OM. 

"  I  should  be  afraid  to  marry  for  money,"  sighed 
Jennie.  Her  thoughts  flew  to  a  very  handsome 
youth  in  her  father's  law-office. 

"  You'd  a  great  deal  better  be  afraid  to  marry 
without  it." 

"  But  is  it  quite  right?"  murmured  Louise. 

"You've  been  reading  Miss  Mulock's  novels," 
puffed  Rhoda  scornfully.  "  I  haven't  a  bit  of 
patience  with  that  woman.  She  harps  on  the 
same  old  silly  string  year  after  year,  and  you  girls 
listen  and  weep  and  long  for  an  impecunious  young 
man  on  the  altar  of  whose  fortunes  you  can  make 
a  sacrifice  of  your  youth  and  comfort.  Don't  you 
know  that  the  key-note  of  the  times  is  not  senti- 
ment, but  practical  sense  ?  Just  after  the  war, 
when  the  country  was  wrought  to  a  high  pitch  of 
nerves,  current  literature  overflowed  with  self-sac- 
rifice. According  to  that  showing, — and  current 
literature  ought  to  be  a  good  reflection  of  the 
times, — everybody  was  running  around  trying  to 
outdo  his  neighbor  in  the  broken-heart  and  self- 
renunciation  business.  One  heroine  gave  up  her 
lover  to  a  friend  who  fancied  him ;  another  sacri- 
ficed her  future  prospects  to  nurse  somebody.  All 
that  sort  of  thing  was  '  noble.'  I  think  it  was 
mawkish.  It  isn't  natural  and  human.  I  am  a 
healthy,  selfish  girl, — not  mean  or  unjust, — but  1 
have  had  some  sharp,  and  even  cruel,  experiences. 
I  know  to  my  own  satisfaction  that  poverty  causes 


"SEEDS    OF   TIME." 


33 


more  evil  than  perhaps  anything  else  in  the  world, 
and  that  easy  circumstances  are  a  great  nourisher 
of  the  virtues.  Why  should  I  let  my  own  obser- 
vations go  for  nothing  and  take  the  dictum  of 
sentimentalists  who  have  no  gauge  for  my  individ- 
ual life  ?  Ah  !  dear  Charles  Lamb!"  mused  Rhoda, 
leaning  forward  and  resting  her  elbow  on  her  knee. 
"  He  told  the  truth,  for  he  had  felt  the  pinch : 
'  Goodly  legs  and  shoulders  of  mutton,  exhil- 
arating cordials,  books,  pictures,  the  opportunities 
of  seeing  foreign  countries,  independence,  heart's 
ease,  a  man's  own  time  to  himself,  are  not  muck, 
however  we  may  be  pleased  to  scandalize  with  that 
appellation  the  faithful  metal  that  provides  them 
for  us." 

"  Oh,  my !  I  should  hate  to  be  real  poor  and 
nobody  at  all,  and  have  no  parties  or  dresses  or 
good  times,"  exclaimed  Jennie. 

"  So  should  I,"  murmured  Louise.  "  But  then 
I  should  hate  to  marry  a  man  I  didn't  like  at  all." 

"  The  man  I  am  going  to  marry,"  said  Rhoda, 
tossing  her  head  back  and  winding  her  hair  in  a 
knot,  "  I  do  decidedly  like.  As  to  being  in  love 
with  him,  I  am  not  a  bit  so ;  that  would  be  very 
disagreeable  and  give  him  an  advantage  over  me. 
Besides,  love  is  a  fleeting  quality,  while  you  can 
put  your  hand  on  abundant  means  and  always  find 
them  there.  I  have  been  desperately  in  love — " 

"  Oh,  Rhoda !" 


34  CKAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

"  And  desperately  disgusted  with  it ;  while  I 
find  that  comfort  never  disgusts  me.  I  like  power 
and  a  good  position." 

("  I'd  like  such  things  too,"  thought  Tamsin.) 

"  And  I  like  travel  and  culture.  It  is  very  kind 
of  this  excellent  man  to  lift  the  burden  of  life  from 
me  and  give  me  the  delicious  sensation  of  not 
having  to  slave  for  an  actual  living, — though,  of 
course,  I've  always  tried  to  get  a  full  life.  I  ex- 
pect him  to  have  faults,  and  acknowledge  it  is  not 
agreeable  to  hear  him  drinking  as  if  his  oesophagus 
was  outside  instead  of  inside  his  throat,  and  smack- 
ing his  mouth  at  table.  Still,  I  can  forgive  him 
that.  A  man  whom  I  doted  on  might  let  me  carry 
my  own  packages  or  pierce  me  with  unmerited 
reproaches.  My  observation  is  that  men  can  be 
very  tyrannical  and  abusive  toward  the  women 
of  their  families." 

("  Oh,  can't  they,  though !"  muttered  Tamsin, 
breathing  through  closed  teeth.) 

"Therefore  I  want  to  protect  myself  as  much  as 
possible  from  the  miseries  of  matrimony.  A  girl 
of  my  acquaintance  married  for  love,  pure  and 
simple  and  plenty  of  it.  She  expected  too  much. 
She  took  a  very  fair  young  man  and  spoiled  him 
with  flattery  and  free  service,  and  exacted  no  cour- 
tesy, no  respect,  no  delicate  consideration,  in  return, 
— nothing  but  his  protested  love.  The  last  time  I 
saw  her  she  was  a  faded,  jaded  creature,  effervescing 


"SEEDS   OF  TIME." 


35 


sourly  at  the  world,  pinched  by  a  paltry  income, 
while  her  dear  lord  rode  high  and  free,  enjoying 
life  in  his  own  way,  though  doubtless  loving  her 
still.  You  see,  love-matches  are  just  as  apt  to 
turn  out  badly  as  any  other  kind." 

"  I  shall  be  afraid  ever  to  marry  anybody  if  you 
don't  quit  saying  such  dreadful  things,"  exclaimed 
the  brunette. 

"  That  won't  hurt  you,"  said  Rhoda  sagely  as 
she  rose.  And,  laughing,  she  added,  "  What  a 
gallop  I  have  been  taking  on  one  of  my  hobbies !" 

"  And  you  haven't  told  us  a  word  about  your 
wedding-trip  or  what  things  you  are  going  to 
have !" 

"  Oh,  I  am  promised  the  foreign  tour.  As  to 
my  wardrobe,  I  shall  have  to  do  as  well  as  I  can : 
in  my  case,  you  know,  there  is  no  rich  relation  to 
insist  on  decorating  the  sacrifice.  I  rather  like 
the  situation :  it  would  gall  me  to  owe  a  trosseau 
to  parties  not  responsible  for  me.  When  we  arrive 
at  Paris,  I  think  I  shall  have  been  married  long 
enough  to  warrant  my  accepting  a  dress  or  two 
from  my  husband  if  he  insists.  He  is  very  gen- 
erous, and  would  load  me  with  gorgeous  presents 
now  if  I  would  allow  it." 

"  I  should  allow  it,"  exclaimed  Jennie.  "  You 
make  me  perfectly  green  with  envy." 

"  Me  too,"  chimed  Louise  as  heartily.  "  Oh, 
Rhoda,  can't  you  find  each  of  us  a  nice  old  gen- 


36  CRAQUE-&-DOOM, 

tleman  with  that  pretty  fringe  above  his  ears  and 
plenty  of  money  ?" 

"  This  is  what  I  will  do,  girls :  when  we  come 
back  and  are  settled  down,  I'll  have  you  to  spend 
several  months  with  me.  It's  a  very  gay  little 
city ;  you  can  have  germans  and  rides  and  parties 
to  your  hearts'  content." 

Both  girls  clapped  their  hands  lightly  with 
quick  enthusiasm. 

"  We  must  go  to  bed  now,"  declared  Jennie. 
"It's  getting  near  the  witching  hour,  and  I  am 
such  a  coward  !  There  isn't  a  soul  up  in  the  house 
except  ourselves." 

They  gathered  up  as  many  of  their  belongings 
as  they  had  scattered  about,  and  Jennie  blew  out 
all  the  candles  except  one,  which  she  transferred 
to  a  china  candlestick  to  light  the  way.  In  its 
rather  feeble  company,  and  encircled  by  an  outer 
rim  of  darkness  which  it  could  not  pierce,  the  girls 
tiptoed  through  the  hall  and  up-stairs,  seeing  long 
distorted  spectres  of  themselves  stretching  up  the 
walls. 

When  the  noise  of  their  closing  doors  came  to 
Tamsin's  ears  through  the  deep  stillness,  she 
slipped  into  the  front  parlor  and  stooped  down 
before  the  remaining  coals.  Like  an  automaton 
she  took  the  shovel  and  heaped  ashes  upon  their 
trembling  light.  Fire  has  the  color  and  the  mo- 
tion of  a  living  thing.  Tamsin  hung  over  it  vyith 


"SEEDS  OF  TIME:'  27 

a  sensuous  pleasure  in  its  beauty.  Every  point 
where  a  violet  flame  reared  suddenly  from  the  red- 
hot  bed  received  a  benediction  of  ashes.  Her 
hand  forgot  its  mechanical  business.  "  You 
needn't  think  you  are  going  to  be  slighted,"  said 
Tamsin,  talking  to  a  little  coal  gazing  reproach- 
fully at  her  through  a  hole  in  the  ashes.  "  Here's 
a  good  lot  for  you, — enough  to  wrap  yourself  up  in 
all  night.  Every  feller  will  be  served  alike.  Now, 
you're  winter  wheat  that's  sowed  in  the  fall  and 
comes  up  in  the  spring.  The  grain's  all  buried 
deep ;  dirt's  over  top  of  it.  Folks  couldn't  tell 
the's  so  much  seed  kivvered  here  ready  to  sprout." 


38  CRAQUE~O'-DOOM. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

PREPARATION. 

Two  or  three  busy  days  passed  rapidly  by. 
The  whole  village  of  Barnet  knew  there  was  to  be 
a  party  given  in  honor  of  the  young-lady  guests  at 
the  Hill-house.  There  could  be  no  loftier  pinnacle 
of  festivity.  Like  every  country  town  over  fifty 
years  old.  Barnet  had  its  solid  people  who  formed 
its  society, — people  whose  goods  increased  with 
every  generation,  who  lived  in  time-tinted,  hospit- 
able-looking homesteads,  sent  their  sons  to  college, 
their  daughters  to  seminaries,  and  loved  to  prove 
to  all  strangers  that  they  were  not  a  whit  behind 
the  age.  In  such  mature  villages  you  find,  in- 
stead of  the  provincial  manners  you  have  a  right 
to  look  for,  a  jealous  conformity  to  what  these  vil- 
lages consider  city  life.  But  while  the  citizen  is  a 
free  agent,  with  his  own  set,  perhaps  his  club  or 
several  clubs,  and  his  amusements,  aside  from  the 
serious  business  of  life,  the  villager  is  hampered 
by  a  heavy  etiquette  and  a  servile  imitation  of  what 
he  considers  standard  models. 

The  Barnet  girls  were  preparing  for  the  party 
with  delight ;  the  young  gentlemen  were  also  a,n- 


PREPARATION.  30 

ticipating,  according  to  their  several  temperaments, 
the  pleasure  or  terror  of  a  white-glove  assembly  in 
a  community  averse  to  dancing  and  card-playing 
It  is  true  that  the  very  flower  of  Barnet  societ) 
patronized  the  great  yearly  ball  at  the  tavern 
which  celebrated  Washington's  birthday;  but  gen- 
erally sentiment  was  against  such  frivolity,  and 
ministers  about  that  time  waxed  very  warm  in  de- 
nouncing the  pleasures  of  sin  which  are  for  a 
season,  and  indulgent  parents  felt  compunction 
that  their  pretty  girls  or  spirited  boys  succeeded 
in  gaining  permission  to  partake  of  this  exhilar- 
ating wickedness. 

Barnet  was  not  intellectual,  but  it  had  long 
since  discarded  the  plays  and  marching  chants 
which  belong  to  primitive  society.  At  its  fashion- 
able assemblies  it  stood  up  straight  and  conversed 
with  miserable  effort,  or  promenaded,  or  listened 
with  hypocritical  enjoyment  to  piano-playing. 

But  very  cheerful  preparations  were  going  for- 
ward at  the  dwelling  which  had  been  locally 
known  as  "the  Hill-house"  ever  since  the  Mills's 
grandfather  built  it  there  to  be  away  from  the 
fumes  of  his  distillery,  which,  half  a  mile  distant, 
had  discharged  slops  into  the  canal  at  its  side  and 
vast  clouds  of  blackness  from  its  monumental 
chimney  into  the  sky.  The  silent  distillery  at  this 
date  leaned  as  if  it  meditated  making  a  noise  in 
the  world  yet  by  coming  down  with  all  its  bulk 


4Q  CKAQUE-  O'-DOOJf. 

into  the  canal ;  the  street  leading  toward  it,  which 
in  earlier  days  had  creaked  with  loads  of  grain, 
was  still  called  the  "  cinder-road,"  and  owed  its 
hardness  to  ancient  ashes  from  the  distillery  ;  the 
chimney  stood  as  inflexible  as  the  shaft  of  Bunker 
Hill.  But  the  Mills  barely  deigned  to  own  it  now, 
and  perhaps  felt  no  gratitude  toward  the  venerable 
edifice  for  the  fortune  it  had  given  them. 

Wax  candles,  multiplying  themselves  thousands 
of  times  in  pendants  and  looking-glasses,  shone  all 
over  the  Hill-house.  They  were  a  light  peculiar 
to  that  homestead,  whose  venerable  mistress  dis- 
liked modern  lamps  and  the  smell  of  oil.  The 
Mills  had  always  afiforded  wax  candles.  Aunt 
Sally  moulded  dozens  of  them  after  the  best  recipe 
known  to  man,  which  could  be  found  only  in  her 
recipe-book  on  the  page  with  spring  beer  and 
mince-pies.  The  faces  of  her  neighbors  and  neigh- 
bors' children  never  appeared  so  pleasing  as  when 
swimming  in  the  mild  radiance  which  wax  lights 
alone  can  shed.  If  the  candles  ran  down  or  sput- 
tered— though  hers  seldom  did — or  pointed  length- 
ening spires  of  wick  knobbed  with  "  letters"  for 
the  young  people  to  take  off  on  their  fingers,  that 
was  the  nature  of  candles.  One  branch  of  Neal's 
business  on  company-nights  was  to  tiptoe  around 
at  least  once  with  the  silver  snuffers  and  tray  and 
snuff  all  the  candles. 

A  house  prepared  for  guests  seems  tQ  sjt  smiling 


PR  EPA  R  A  TION.  4 1 

expectantly  while  it  listens  for  the  first  arrival. 
The  piano  is  open  ;  doors  or  curtains  are  drawn 
back  that  parlors  and  library  may  meet  hospit- 
ably together ;  the  dressing-rooms  are  warm  and 
light;  the  fires  are  banks  of  burning  color;  the 
flowers  are  as  fresh  as  the  first  girl  in  white  who 
bends  her  neck  to  smell  them.  Our  familiar  haunts 
are  not  ours  for  the  time ;  they  belong  to  the 
genius  of  Hospitality,  and  we  are  merely  its  pur- 
veyors. 

Precisely  at  half-past  seven  o'clock  Aunt  Sally 
left  her  last  order  with  Neal  and  turned  toward  her 
own  room  to  put  on  the  black  brocade  and  lace 
bosom-piece  which  all  Barnet  honored.  She  was 
a  most  capable  hostess,  and  her  face  shone  in  the 
glory  of  its  white  hair  and  benevolence.  It  was 
never  a  weariness  to  her  to  have  guests  in  the 
house ;  and  guests  were  there  constantly.  Jennie 
Mills  or  any  other  cousin  felt  privileged  to  bring 
troops  of  friends  at  all  times,  and  the  captain  had 
constant  satellites, — old  comrades,  new  and  odd 
acquaintances,  sporting  gentlemen  who  came  to 
hunt  with  him  in  the  season. 

"  Tamsin,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  looking  at  the  girl 
and  remembering  how  rapidly  and  willingly  she 
had  worked,  "  I  should  have  let  you  run  home  to 
change  your  dress  before  it  got  dark.  But  Tillie 
is  here ;  you  can  take  her  for  company." 

Tamsin  stood  still,  looking  at  the  Jong  and  glit- 
4* 


42  CRAQUE-Cr-DOOM. 

taring  table  in  the  dining-room.  "  They  won't 
mind  me,"  she  muttered. 

"  Remember  not  to  stay  long,"  admonished  Aunt 
Sally. 

Tamsin  looked  up  in  real  anguish :  "  Do  I  have 
to?" 

"  Have  to  what,  child  ?" 

"  Put  on  something  else." 

"  Why,  that  dress  is  dirty." 

"  I  know't,"  fingering  the  threadbare  cotton 
folds  with  a  trembling  touch  and  speaking  in  a 
whisper.  "  I  thought  I'd  git  time  to  run  home 
and  wash  and  iron  it ;  but  I  didn't."  Her  fingers 
tightened  and  twitched  the  faded  thing. 

"  Haven't  you  any  other  dress  ?" 

"  No,  'm,"  fiercely,  as  if  the  confession  were  torn 
from  her. 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  it,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  push- 
ing up  her  glasses.  "  I  wanted  you  to  help  pass 
the  supper.  Why,  that's  too  bad,  Tamsin  !  You 
ought  to  have  bought  yourself  a  dress  with  the 
last  money  I  paid  you.  Let  me  see :  when  was 
that  ?" 

"  Father  wanted  it,"  Chenoworth's  daughter 
deigned  to  add,  with  her  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  fair  old  lady  kindly, 
and  she  went  up-stairs  with  the  benevolent  inten- 
tion of  speaking  to  one  of  the  girls  in  behalf  of 
her  humble  Cinderella. 


PREPARA  770 AT. 


43 


Tamsin  stood  still,  fingering  the  old  dress,  her 
olive  face  heated  and  her  mouth  curved  down  in 
scorn.  "  It's  always  going  to  be  so,  it's  always 
going  to  be  so  !"  that  strong  spirit  which  ground 
her  down  mocked  in  her  ear ;  upon  which  her  own 
spirit  defiantly  retorted,  "  It  isn't !  it  shan't." 

Nobody  would  ever  learn  from  her  own  lips  that 
her  father  was  in  the  habit  of  borrowing  whatever 
she  could  earn  and  charging  up  her  board  and 
lodging  to  her  as  repayment.  If  the  old  man  sus- 
pected himself  of  meanness,  he  silenced  that  sus- 
picion by  pointing  to  the  fact  that  he  had  a  large 
family  to  support  and  somebody  must  support  it. 
One  or  two  small  producers  fare  badly  among  half 
a  dozen  non-producers. 

"  I  wanted  to  git  Tillie  a  dress,  daddy,"  Tamsin 
had  petitioned  on  the  last  occasion. 

"  Dresses  is  all  vanity,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  And  I'm  nearly  naked  myself." 

"  Well,  where's  corn-meal  and  side-meat  to  come 
from,  and  all  the  sugar  that  you  eat  up,  if  so  much 
money  has  to  be  spent  on  clothes  ?" 

"  Why  don't  the  boys  work  ?  Why  don't  you 
make  'em  work  at  something  ?"  she  cried  fiercely ; 
at  which  the  old  man  had  growled  helplessly  and 
put  her  earnings  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  might  'a  lied  and  hid  it,"  whispered  Tamsin, 
winking  back  a  glare  of  tears  which  made  the  few 
lights  in  the  dining-room  each  put  a  nimbus  over 


44  CRAQUE-CP-DOOM. 

its  white  length.  "  Then  me  and  Tillie  needn't  be 
shamed  as  bad  as  we  are.  But  somehow  I  never 
do:  I  always  give  it  to  him.  And  folks  believe  I 
don't  care  how  I  look.  Folks  don't  know  what 
you're  thinking  about."  To  keep  folks  from  even 
suspecting,  she  changed  the  expression  of  her  face 
the  instant  the  kitchen-door  opened,  and  looked  to 
see  Neal  enter  in  his  best  black  coat  and  air  of 
politest  superiority.  "  I  hate  niggers  !"  she  hissed 
under  her  breath.  "  They  feel  so  smart  when 
they've  got  plenty  to  eat  and  to  wear  and  a  nice 
house  to  live  in." 

But  it  was  Tillie  who  came  in  and  ran  up  to  put 
her  arms  around  her  elder's  waist.  Every  curve 
in  Tamsin's  face  became  maternal  and  tender. 
She  smoothed  the  flaxen  poll.  "  I  hain't  seen 
ye  for  so  long,"  said  Tillie. 

"  Did  you  miss  me,  honey?" 

"Yes;  I  don't  like  to  git  shut  of  ye." 

"  What  they  doin'  down  there  ?" 

"  Nothin'      Sary  Jane's  baby  ain't  very  well." 

"You  might  'a  come  up  and  stayed  with  me 
awhile  yesterday." 

"  I  hate  to  stan'  round  in  the  way.  When  Aunt 
Sally  Teagard'  saw  me  comin'  in  awhile  ago, 
'peared  like  she'd  think  my  room  was  better  than 
my  comp'ny." 

Tamsin  laughed  and  rocked  the  wide-mouthed 
little  creature  to  and  fro  in  her  arms  as  they  stood  : 


PREPARATIOA'.  45 

"  'Most  anybody'd  think  that  of  such  rag-bags  as 
you  and  me.  Oh,  honey,  how  I  wish  I  was  rich  ! 
If  I  was,  I'd  give  you  everything  heart  could 
wish." 

"  We're  poor,"  said  Tillie  lightly,  but  with  con- 
viction. "  We  won't  never  be  rich." 

"  Sometimes  I  b'lieve  I  will"  stated  Tamsin  with 
fierce  energy.  "  There'll  be  some  chance.  I'd 
take  you  off,  honey,  to  see  everything  in  the  world. 
You  wouldn't  have  to  stick  in  the  mud  here.  Fine 
dresses  !  A  'cordion  to  play  on  !" 

"  Oh,  Tarn,  would  you  git  me  a  'cordion  ?" 

"  The  finest  kind  of  a  one." 

"I'd  play  it  and  knock  the  tunes  while  I's 
a-playin'."  Tillie  began  to  shuffle  her  feet  and 
spread  her  hands  with  an  imaginary  accordion  be- 
tween them. 

"  And  decenter  shoes  than  you  ever  had  on 
your  feet  yit,"  added  Tamsin  savagely.  "  What 
would  you  like  to  have  the  best  of  anything 
now?" 

"  All  the  good  cake  I  could  eat,  iced  thick,"  re- 
plied Tillie,  gazing  on  the  glittering  table. 

Tamsin  rocked  her  to  and  fro  :  "  Oh  !  And 
we've  got  to  go  into  my  bedroom  and  stay  hid." 

"What  for?" 

"  Because  I  ain't  fit  to  be  seen.  You  don't  look 
so  bad,  but  I  do." 

Tillie  looked  grave.     Her  guardian  cast  about 


46  CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 

mentally  for  cheerful  entertainment  with  which  to 
pass  those  hours  that  the  guests  would  spend  in 
gayety. 

"  And  Mis'  Teagard'  needs  me  to  help  pass  the 
supper,  too !  But  you  can  say  all  your  hymns 
out  of  your  little  pink  book  to  me  settin'  there  in 
the  dark  together." 

Tillie  assented  dubiously  and  suggested  as  a 
specimen,  "  I  thank  the  goodness  and  the  grace." 
She  moreover  plunged  at  once  into  the  recitation, 
knocking  the  time  with  her  head  instead  of  her 
feet :  "  I've  said  '  I  thank  the  goodness  and  the 
grace'  more  times  'n  I've  got  hairs  in  my  head, 
Tamsin : 

"  I  thank  the  goodness  and  the  grace 
Which  on  my  birth  have  smiled, 
And  made  me  in  this  happy  place 
A  happy  Christian  child. 

"  I  was  not  born,  as  thousands  are, 

Where  God  is  never  known, 
And  taught  to  pray  a  useless  prayer 
To  blocks  of  wood  and  stone. 

"  I  was  not  born  without  a  home, 

Or,  in  some  broken  shed, 
A  gypsy  baby,  taught  to  roam 
And  steal  my  daily  bread." 

("  You  was  born  pretty  nigh  as  bad  off,  though," 
said  Tamsin  under  her  breath.) 


PREP  A  RA  TION.  47 

"  My  God,  I  thank  Thee,  who  hast  planned 

A  better  lot  for  me,  , 

And  placed  me  in  this  happy  land, 
Where  I  can  hear  of  Thee." 


"  Tamsin  !"  It  was  Miss  Jones  looking  out 
from  the  parlor.  She  was  in  a  loose  cashmere 
dressing-gown,  but  her  hair  was  elaborately  fin- 
ished. "  Will  you  come  up  to  my  room — and 
bring  your  little  sister  if  you  want  to — to  help  me 
a  minute?" 


48  C/tA  QVE-O'-DO  OM. 


CHAPTER   V. 

AN   ARRIVAL. 

THIS  was  Rhoda  Jones's  device  for  playing  a 
brief  part  as  godmother.  Aunt  Sally  had  gone  to 
the  girls  to  have  her  lace  bosom-piece  set  straight 
and  mention  Tamsin's  predicament.  "  If  I  had 
known  it  in  time,"  she  said  with  a  sympathetic 
twist  of  her  mouth,  "  I  could  have  provided  some- 
thing for  her  to  put  on.  There  are  several  good 
calicoes  of  mine  she  could  have,  but  they  would 
need  a  considerable  amount  of  taking  in." 

"  Haven't  I  got  something  ?"  cried  Jennie  Mills 
through  a  mouthful  of  dangerous  pins  and  a 
checked  laugh  as  she  manipulated  the  lace  on  the 
old  lady's  noble  shoulders. 

"  You  leave  it  to  me,"  called  Rhoda  from  across 
the  hall.  "  Your  girl  down-stairs,  Mrs.  Teagarden, 
is  one  of  the  royal  personages  in  disguise  who  are 
sensitive  to  all  approach.  She  will  have  to  be  sur- 
prised into  raiment  not  her  own,  or  she  will  not 
put  it  on." 

"  Tamsin  is  a  good,  quiet  girl,"  said  Aunt  Sally  ; 
"  but  you  don't  know  the  Chenoworths." 

"She    is  f  the   revolt  of  the    Chenoworths,") ex- 


AN  ARRIVAL. 


49 


pounded  Rhoda,  appearing  at  the  door.  "  I 
haven't  had  my  eyes  on  her  nearly  a  week  for 
nothing." 

"  You  have  such  queer  ideas,  Rhoda  !"  laughed 
Louise,  looking  back  from  her  dressing-glass,  in 
which  a  glorious  blond  head  was  being  con- 
structed. "  Give  Rhoda  a  stump  and  an  old  woman 
with  a  blackberry  basket,  with  a  little  patch  of  sky 
overhead  and  a  bit  of  woods  at  the  back,  and  she'll 
get  a  story  out  of  it,  when  I  couldn't  put  it  into  a 
decent  pencil-sketch. — Oh,  where  is  that  powder- 
puff?" 

"  That's  because  you  draw  so  abominably,"  ex- 
claimed Jennie. 

"  I'll  draw  a  ribbon  out  of  my  box  for  Tamsin, 
at  any  rate.  Here's  one." 

"  Gracious  !  she  can't  dress  herself  in  one  ribbon. 
— I  might  give  her  my  black  cashmere,  Aunt  Sally. 
She's  larger  than  Louise,  but  she's  about  my 
height." 

"  Janet,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  "  don't  say  another 
word  about  it.  Your  black  cashmere  is  nearly 
new,  and  your  father  and  mother  would  have  a 
fine  opinion  of  me  if  I  encouraged  you  in  such  ex- 
travagant generosity." 

"  But  you  will  need  her." 

"  I  think  I  can  manage  with  Neal.  And  the 
young  gentlemen  are  always  very  forward  to 
assist." 

c       d  5 


jjO  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

"  There  goes  Rhoda  down-stairs,"  said  Louise, 
setting  a  knot  of  ribbon  in  her  hair  where  it  would 
do  most  damage  to  beholders. 

And  very  shortly  Rhoda  returned  up  the  back 
stairway  with  two  other  pairs  of  feet  following  her. 
She  shut  her  door,  murmuring,  "  This  must  be  a 
close  seance.  Other  mediums — even  the  most 
noble — might  spoil  the  communication." 

Tamsin  waited,  erect  and  folding  her  arms,  with- 
out betraying  that  she  tingled  in  her  raiment  be- 
side this  wealthier  poor  girl's  fine  half-toilet.  Tillie 
sat  down  on  a  cane-chair  by  the  corner  of  the 
open  fire  and  curled  her  rough-shod  feet  out  of 
sight. 

"  The  others  are  over  there  together,"  said  Miss 
Jones,  unfastening  her  wrapper,  "  having  no  end 
of  fun  while  they  dress.  So  I  thought  of  you, 
Tamsin,  and  wondered  if  you  would  sew  -that 
white  frill  under  the  edge  of  my  velvet  train  for 
me.  There  are  needle  and  thread  and  thimble. 
Just  baste  it, — pretty  strongly,  though  :  I  haven't 
any  doubt  some  masculine  hoof  will  be  set  through 
it.  The  girls  are  going  to  look  like  angels.  Have 
you  seen  their  dresses  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Tamsin,  bending  her  head  over 
the  sewing. 

"  I  keep  pretty  steadily  to  black  and  rich,  heavy 
things.  They  are  less  expensive  in  the  long  run. 
Louise  is  going  to  be  a  fluff  of  lavender-color  with 


AN  ARRIVAL.  5  j 

a  fashionable  name,  further  neutralized  by  lots  of 
lace.  Jennie  is  going  to  be  a  blaze  in  the  land- 
scape :  she  has  a  scarlet  satin  that  makes  her  look 
like  a  dream  of  Egypt." 

Tamsin  actually  felt  no  sting  in  these  things, 
told  to  her  as  to  any  young  girl.  She  glanced  up 
at  Rhoda  Jones,  and  half  smiled  with  interest. 

Rhoda  paused  in  the  occupation  of  pencilling 
her  eyebrows  to  laugh  back.  "  They  were  always 
so  pale,"  she  explained.  "  Not  black  and  straight, 
like  yours." 

Tamsin  brushed  the  back  of  her  hand  across 
one  eyebrow  with  a  hasty  gesture.  She  rose  up 
with  her  little  task  completed. 

"  Ever  so  many  thanks.  Now  I  wish  you'd  put 
on  this  black  skirt  and  red  basque  and  little  red 
cap,  will  you.  I  have  a  great  fancy  to  see  how 
you'd  look  in  them." 

She  brought  the  garments  out  of  a  wardrobe. 
The  skirt  was  cashmere ;  the  jacket  and  tasselled 
cap  were  velveteen.  They  were  full  of  sandal- 
wood  odor. 

"  Now,  don't  refuse,"  begged  Rhoda.  "  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  I  made  these  things  over  for  you 
myself  since  I  first  saw  you." 

"  Made  'em  for  me  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  you're  picturesque,  and  they'll  make  you 
look  more  so.  You  can  afford  to  put  on  odd 
things :  all  girls  of  your  style  can.  The  cap  and 


52  CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 

jacket  I  had  for  some  private  theatricals.  I  be- 
lieve they  will  fit  you  to  a  dot." 

"  Oh,  dress  up  in  them,  Tamsie !"  put  in  Tillie. 

"Do!"  said  Rhoda,  turning  from  her  dressing 
to  extend  her  large  beautiful  arms  in  argument. 
44  Why  shouldn't  you  make  yourself  fair  to  look 
upon,  as  well  as  any  other  girl  ?  And  those 
things  are  yours  ;  I  fixed  them  for  you." 

Tamsin  took  up  one  piece  after  the  other.  Tillie 
came  to  look  around  her  elbow. 

"  And  you'd  better  hurry,  my  dear,"  said  Rhoda. 
"  Oh,  I  nearly  forgot:  here  are  a  pair  of  low  shoes 
and  scarlet  stockings  which  go  with  that  dress." 

"  I'm  very  much  obleeged."  Tamsin  spoke  the 
words  slowly,  as  if  she  were  struggling  against  the 
gifts. 

"  Not  a  bit.  I'm  obliged  to  you  for  helping 
me." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  come  to  fix  'em — for 
me  ?"  with  a  slight  upward  inflection  of  her 
voice. 

Rhoda  came  forward  laughing,  but  as  if  she  did 
not  observe  the  hesitation  and  trembling  of  this 
chrysalis  woman.  To  Tamsin  her  manner  seemed 
completely  charming.  It  was  neither  too  reserved 
nor  too  familiar.  It  conferred  kindness  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  started  an  exhilaration  like  joy 
through  veins  accustomed  to  torpor. 

Without  a  word  of  warning  Rhcda  powdered 


AN  ARRIVAL.  53 

the  flaxen  hair  and  olive  face,  and  Tamsin  sub- 
mitted, laughing  with  her. 

About  ten  minutes  thereafter  there  was  the  noise 
of  a  vehicle  in  front  of  the  house,  and  in  due  sea- 
son the  door-bell  rang. 

"  Now,  there  are  the  Balls,"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Sally,  bustling  out  of  the  chamber  where  Louise 
and  Jennie  had  impressed  her  willing  hands  in 
their  service :  "  they  always  drive  in  early.  I 
wonder  if  Tom  is  down-stairs  ?  Make  haste, 
girls,  and  tell  Miss  Rhoda  to  hurry  down."  She 
looked  over  the  stairway.  "  Where's  Neal  ?  Why 
doesn't  he  answer  the  door?" 

"  I'll  answer  it,"  said  a  figure  hurrying  forward 
from  the  back  stairs.  "  Shall  I  ?" 

"  Why,  Tamsin  Chenoworth  !"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Sally,  bringing  her  glasses  to  bear.  "  Who  on 
earth  did  fix  you  up  in  that  kind  of  a  way  ?" 

"  Don't  I  look  right  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  you  do.  You  look  real  well,  con- 
sidering," said  Aunt  Sally  with  discretion.  She 
followed  the  figure  down-stairs  with  her  eyes  be- 
fore turning  to  descend  by  the  back  way. 

The  bell  rang  again.  Tamsin  opened  the  door 
wide  and  looked  out  at  night.  The  hall-lights 
were  behind  her.  She  saw  nobody,  and  heard 
only  the  soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  evergreens. 

Suddenly,  it  seemed  at  her  feet,  a  voice  spoke, 
and  she  saw  a  man's  head  on  the  top  step  as  if  it 
S* 


54  CRAQUE-Cf-DOOM. 

had  just  emerged  from  the  shadow  where  the  bell- 
handle  was.  There  seemed  to  be  a  very  little  ex- 
cepting the  head,  and  it  was  all  muffled  up.  But 
the  face  was  raised  to  this  picture  of  a  black-eyed, 
light-haired  girl  in  scarlet  and  black  and  black- 
lace  frills,  slim  in  figure,  beautifully  oval  in  face. 

Tamsin  looked  down  at  the  head  without  utter- 
ing a  sound.  She  was  terrified,  but  with  instinctive 
compassion  betrayed  no  terror. 

"  This  is  Captain  Mills's  residence  ?"  The  head's 
voice  was  pleasing  and  mellow  rather  than  heavy 
and  masculine. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  he  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     Will  you  come  in  ?" 

He  did  not  see  the  pallor  around  her  mouth  as 
he  grasped  the  side  of  the  door  and  swung  him- 
self up  into  the  hall.  Whatever  his  length  of 
limb  may  have  been,  it  was  concealed  by  a  tiny 
ulster.  The  top  of  his  head  was  not  on  a  level 
with  Tamsin's  waist  when  he  pulled  his  cap  off. 
He  drew  a  card  from  some  inner  pocket  and 
handed  it  up  to  Tamsin.  It  bore  the  name  of 
"  Isaac  Sutton."  She  closed  the  door,  and  was 
directing  him  toward  the  open  parlor,  when  Cap- 
tain Mills  came  into  the  hall,  exclaiming,  "  Why, 
Craque-o'-Doom,  how  are  you?  Come  in,  old  fel- 
low, come  in  !" 


"  75T.V  T  HE   HORRIBLE .?' 


55 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"ISN'T    HE    HORRIBLE?" 

IT  looked  very  grotesque  to  see  Captain  Mills 
and  the  mite  to  whom  he  was  obliged  to  stoop, 
shaking  hands.  They  went  into  the  front  parlor. 

"  I  made  use  of  your  general  invitation  to  drop 
down  on  you  for  what  they  call  the  holidays,"  said 
the  mellow  voice  near  the  floor.  "  I  wanted  to  get 
away  from  the  people,  and  from  the  hubbub  they 
make  at  this  time  of  the  year." 

Captain  Mills  seemed  to  feel  his  height  an  en- 
cumbrance as  he  pushed  a  chair  near  the  hearth. 
But  he  took  another  himself,  and  this  brought  his 
head  nearer  to  a  level  with  that  of  his  visitor,  who 
climbed  dexterously  into  place  and  stuck  a  pair  of 
small  shoe-soles  toward  the  fire. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you're  here,"  said  Captain  Tom 
heartily.  "  But  I'm  afraid  you've  dropped  down 
right  upon  a  hubbub.  There's  going  to  be  a  party 
in  the  house  to-night." 

"A  party?"  The  tone  expressed  unmistakable 
disgust. 

"  Yes.  Given  for  some  young  ladies. — a  cousin 
of  mine  and  her  friends." 


tj  6  CRA  Q  UE-  V-DO  OM. 

11  Young  ladies  ?"  Distress  was  added  to  the 
disgust.  "  Come,  Tom,  I  must  get  out  of  this.  I 
don't  see  how  I  got  the  idea  that  you  lived  like  a 
Crusoe  because  you  were  a  bachelor,  but  that  seems 
to  be  the  impression  I  labored  under." 

"  You  shall  not  stir  a  step,"  exclaimed  Captain 
Mills,  putting  his  hand  on  the  figure.  "  A  few 
neighbors  shan't  frighten  a  man's  choice  spirits 
out  of  his  house.  If  you  don't  want  to  partake  of 
the  festivities — " 

"  Your  pardon,  Tom.     Look  at  me  !" 

Captain  Mills  did  so  almost  affectionately,  and 
without  removing  his  hand. 

"  If  you  don't  want  to  be  tormented  with  people," 
he  continued,  "  you  can  adjourn  to  your  room,  and 
as  soon  as  I  can  disappear  we  will  hold  a  session 
of  our  own  with  closed  doors." 

"  That  will  do  very  well.  There  are  the  young 
ladies  though,"  reflectively.  "  I  wish — I  always 
wish — I  had  Gyges's  ring." 

"  Pooh  !  Three  first-rate,  comfortable  girls.  And 
here's  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Teagarden.  Allow  me. — My 
friend  Mr.  Sutton,  Aunt  Sally." 

Captain  Mills  half  arose;  the  dwarf  bent  his 
large  head  with  beautiful  deference.  Aunt  Sally 
made  the  old-time  courtesy  and  came  forward  to 
receive  Thomas's  friend.  Her  mouth  twitched 
spasmodically  as  she  brought  her  glasses  to  bear 
upon  him,  but  she  was  charming,  and  took  his 


"  ISN'  T  HE   HORRIBLE  >"  57 

hand,  giving  it  a  stately  shake  :  "  We  are  very  glad 
to  see  you,  Mr.  Sutton.  I  have  heard  Thomas 
speak  about  you.  Did  you  find  it  cold  driving, 
from  the  railroad  ?" 

"That  reminds  me,"  interrupted  the  captain: 
"  have  you  got  your  own  rig  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  usually  take  it,"  replied  the  other  half 
dejectedly. — "  It's  my  trap,"  he  explained  to  Aunt 
Sally.  "  I  ship  the  whole  thing  when  I  travel,  be- 
cause there  is  less  risk  about  it  than  in  trusting 
myself  to  chance." 

"  Your  trap  ?"  said  Aunt  Sally.  "  Yes,  Thomas 
sometimes  hunts,  but  he  uses  guns ;  though  the 
very  sight  of  a  musket  makes  me  feel  sad  since  the 
war." 

A  smile  appeared  on  the  strange  face,  now 
flushed  with  fire-heat:  "I  mean  my  carriage.  It 
is  a  snug  one,  built  on  purpose  for  me,  and  with  it 
I  bring  a  horse  and  a  coachman." 

"  Neal  will  show  them  the  way  to  the  stable," 
said  Captain  Mills. 

"  They  have  gone  to  your  hotel.  I  saw  by  the 
light  that  you  were  at  home :  so  I  gave  my  man 
directions  before  coming  in." 

"  Where  is  Neal,  aunt  ?  He  must  go  after  them. 
— Lots  of  empty  stalls  here,  Craque-o'-Doom,  and 
room  in  the  carriage-house.  It  wasn't  kind  of  you 
to  doubt  it." 

"  Well,  when  a  man  has  to  carry  his  house  on 


58  CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 

his  back,  he  ought  to  hesitate  about  encumbering 
his  friends  with  it.  My  valises  were  put  inside  the 
gate." 

"  Here  is  Neal,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Sally,  per- 
ceiving him  in  the  vista. — "  Neal !"  She  moved 
toward  him  with  a  crackle  and  swish  of  the  rich 
brocade.  "  Go  out  and  bring  the  valises  that  were 
left  by  the  gate,  and  then  you  must  hurry  down  to 
the  tavern  and  tell  this  gentleman's  man  that  he  is 
to  put  up  here  with  the  horse  and  buggy.  Tamsin 
can  mind  the  door  until  you  get  back." 

"And,  aunt,"  called  Captain  Mills,  as  Neal's  un- 
willing feet  went  through  the  hall,  "let  us  have  a 
room 'right  away."  He  rose,  for  Neal's  exit  was 
forestalled  by  a  ring  at  the  door-bell,  the  first 
arrival. 

The  dwarf  got  down  from  his  seat  and  sauntered 
behind  a  large  chair,  while  the  people  who  entered 
were  ushered  to  dressing-rooms. 

Aunt  Sally  then  led  the  way  up  the  cleared 
stairs,  while  Captain  Mills  stayed  below  to  receive 
the  guests.  She  was  flurried,  and  conscious  of  a 
spider-like  creature  climbing  rapidly  behind  hei, 
and  positive  she  could  not  have  borne  to  see  him 
climb  ahead  of  her  ;  so  she  did  not  see  a  beautiful 
dark  head  stretching  out  above  to  peep  down,  or  a 
timorous  blond  one  appearing  behind  that. 

"Isn't  he  horrible  ?"  whispered  Jennie. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  whispered  Louise. 


"ISN'T  HE   HORRIBLE  r  59 

In  turning  a  bend  of  the  stairs,  the  dwarf  gave 
them  a  swift  look.  His  face,  seen  dimly,  expressed 
neither  pain  nor  resentment.  He  was  accustomed 
to  such  words. 

Rhoda  Jones's  hand,  put  out  of  her  room,  pulled 
them  both  into  it. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  he  didn't  hear  me  !"  exclaimed 
Jennie  when  the  door  was  shut ;  "  but  he  makes 
my  flesh  creep." 

"Of  course  he  heard  you,"  said  Rhoda.  "And 
what  a  mass  of  nerves  and  anguish  such  a  creature 
must  be !" 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  I  never  saw  anything  so 
horrible  in  my  life !" 


60  CRA  QUE-O-'DO  OM. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A    NABOB. 

WITHIN  an  hour  the  latest  guests  had  arrived, 
and  the  three  girls  were  in  various  part:;  of  the 
buzzing  parlors,  making  themselves  agreeable  to 
the  flower  of  Barnet  society.  Louise  promenaded 
on  the  arm  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  while  half  the 
matrons  dissected  her  dress ;  Jennie  had  drawn 
around  herself  a  court  of  airy  young  ladies  and  ad- 
miring young  gentlemen  ;  and  Rhoda  Jones  was 
trying  to  make  life  less  excruciating  to  a  youth  of 
twenty,  with  a  large  Adam's  apple  and  a  blushing 
countenance,  who  had  the  reputation  in  Barnet  of 
being  "  smart." 

Everybody  talked  with  strained  gayety, — as  poor 
human  nature,  gentle  as  well  as  simple,  always  will 
do  on  festive  occasions, — excepting  some  quiet 
women  who  got  behind  tables  and  buried  them- 
selves in  photograph-albums  or  stereoscopic  views 
until  they  were  marshalled  out  by  Aunt  Sally  and 
catechised  about  the  health  of  all  their  distant 
relatives  and  the  best  method  of  making  black- 
berry-balsam. 

There  were  two  or  three  young  girls  who  would 


A    NABOB.  6j 

evermore  remember  this  event  as  their  first  party, 
and  who  hung  protectingly  to  each  other,  tittering 
and  squeezing  each  other's  fingers  at  unspoken 
jokes  and  mutual  understandings.  They  were 
afraid  to  cross  the  room  without  their  arms  inter- 
laced, and  were  so  desperately  anxious  to  behave 
correctly  that  they  stumbled  and  overturned  things 
with  their  elbows,  and  very  much  desired  to  take 
off"  their  hands  and  feet  and  float.  The  "  town 
girls"  were  constantly  watched  by  them.  They 
admired  Louise  and  Jennie  with  all  their  souls,  but 
Rhoda  Jones,  so  approachable  that  she  considered 
herself  quite  Bohemian,  was  an  awful  mystery  to 
them.  They  told  each  other  in  thrilling  whispers 
that  she  "  wrote,"  and  they  both  envied  and  ridi- 
culed the  temerity  of  the  young  man  with  the 
Adam's  apple,  who  stood  up  grasping  the  lapels  of 
his  coat  and  talked  his  intelligent  talk  to  her.  If 
she  looked  toward  them,  they  were  desperately 
afraid  she  saw  something  about  them  to  impale  and 
hold  up  before  the  public.  They  promenaded  the 
halls,  and  were  after  a  while  overwhelmed  to  find 
themselves  on  the  arms  of  their  elder  sisters'  cava- 
liers, who  took  them  up  in  a  patronizing,  paternal 
way  wholly  delightful.  When  Tamsin  Chenovvorth 
was  helping  to  pass  refreshments,  these  young 
girls,  her  contemporaries,  pitied  her  because  she 
could  not  sit  on  the  stairs  with  an  elderly  beau  to 
fan  her  and  hold  her  plate, — or  they  would  have 


62  CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

pitied  her  if  they  had  considered  her  worth  the 
trouble. 

Before  supper  was  served,  however,  Captain 
Mills  made  his  way  slowly,  past  groups  with  whom 
he  stopped  to  chat,  to  Rhoda,  and  offered  her  his 
arm,  saying,  "  I'd  like  to  consult  with  you  a 
minute,  if  you  can  excuse  yourself." 

"About  what?"  she  inquired,  moving  away 
with  him. 

"  I  hope  I  didn't  break  in  on  anything  very  in- 
teresting?" 

"  Why,  yes,  you  did.  You  took  me  away  from 
an  altar  where  clouds  of  incense  have  been  rising 
to  my  delighted  nose.  Don't  you  call  it  interesting 
to  be  gazed  upon  as  a  goddess,  when  you  know 
that  hard  work  and  plenty  of  it  is  the  law  of  your 
life." 

"  Very  interesting,"  laughed  the  captain.  "  You're 
quite  a  lion  down  here,  you  know." 

"  And  what  a  comfort  that  is,  when  I  consider 
that  I  am  a  mere  lamb  in  Park  Row  and  Madison 
Square !  The  gentleman  from  whom  you  took 
me  was  discoursing  the  sweetest  flattery,  without  a 
suspicion  that  I  have  had  a  book  published  for 
which  I  never  got  a  cent  of  royalty."  They  both 
laughed  as  they  entered  the  dining-room. 

Tillie  Chenoworth  was  sitting  there,  with  her 
feet  curled  under  her,  by  the  fire,  listening  to  the 
buzz  of  society.  Tamsin  stood  beside  her,  with 


A   NABOB  63 

one  hand  on  her  shoulder.  They  were  quite  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  What  has  been  done  to  that  girl  ?"  said  Cap- 
tain Tom,  looking  at  her  shapely  back,  as  he 
paused  beside  the  table. 

"  Oh,  she  has  merely  put  on  a  bright  kerchief 
and  washed  her  face,  as  Fanchon  did,"  said  Rhoda. 
"  Men  will  always  notice  a  woman's  new  gear 
either  in  effect  or  detail.  Did  you  ever  feel  in- 
terest enough  in  that  girl  to  draw  her  out  and  see 
whether  she  has  a  thinking,  sensitive  nature  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Captain  Tom 
drolly.  They  were  speaking  in  a  low  tone,  so  that 
their  voices  reached  Tamsin  as  a  heavy  murmur. 
"  Your  speaking  of  Fanchon  reminds  me  that  I 
gave  her  that  book  to  read  once, — the  English  ver- 
sion of  it.  She  was  dusting  the  books  and  look- 
ing into  them.  I  picked  up  '  The  Cricket,'  and 
said  I,  '  Here,  Tamsin,  here's  something  you  will 
like.  It's  about  a  smart  little  girl  who  made  a 
woman  of  herself  She  took  the  book,  and  I  went 
on  elaborating :  '  It's  been  made  into  a  play  and 
put  on  the  stage,  and  it's  quite  popular.  People 
like  to  see  a  poor  girl  come  out  at  the  top  of  the 
heap.' " 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?"  inquired  Rhoda,  smil- 
ing slowly. 

"  Well,  she  read  it  when  she  got  time,  and  when 
I  thought  of  it  I  asked  her  how  she  liked  it.  The 


64  CRAQUE-Cf-DOOM. 

girl  has  brilliant  eyes,  you  know.  She  looked 
down  and  answered,  'Very  well ;'  then  she  looked 
up  with  a  sort  of  flash, and  said,'  I  don't  think  that 
Cricket  had  much  spunk,  or  she  wouldn't  let  'em 
see  when  she  felt  bad." 

Rhoda  nodded  her  head  several  times.  The 
scarlet  bodice  stood  in  relief  against,  the  black 
mantel.  Tillie  stirred  restlessly,  and  said  in  an 
undertone,  feeling  for  the  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
"  Tamsie,  when  we  goin'  to  have  some  cake  ?" 

"  Soon's  they  have  supper." 

"  Will  you  gimme  a  piece  of  that  one  all  over 
flowers?"  the  wide  mouth  showing  its  pink  gums. 

"Yes,  honey,  if  Mis'  Teagard'  lets  me." 

"  They're  goin'  to  begin  now,  ain't  they?" 

"  Not  till  about  'leven." 

"  But  them  ones  is  goin'  to  begin." 

Tamsin  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  the  host 
and  his  companion. 

"  I  brought  you  on  purpose,"  said  Captain  Tom 
to  Rhoda,  "  to  have  a  tray  of  something  he  would 
like  fixed  up  for  him.  I  thought  you'd  be  the 
most  likely  person  to  hit  off  his  fancy." 

"  Much  obliged  for  the  compliment.  Do  you 
know  what  he  ordinarily  prefers  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  do.  Somehow,  I  can't  re- 
call him  eating.  But  he's  a  hearty  fellow,  too. 
He  was  up  on  the  Canadian  rivers  last  summer 
with  several  of  us." 


A   NABOB.  65 

"  What !  that  little  creature  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom.  "  I  suppose  I  got  used  to  his 
being  little.  He  is  as  swift  and  active  as  a  bird." 

"  The  girls  were  peeping  at  him  when  he  went 
up-stairs."  As  she  talked,  Rhoda  selected  a  bit 
here  and  a  bit  there  and  covered  one  of  the  ready 
salvers.  "  Jennie  said  he  was  horrible." 

"  Craque-o'-Doom  isn't  horrible :  I  don't  find 
him  so.  He  seemed  queer  at  first.  But  men 
aren't  so  particular  as  women.  The  camping- 
party  I  met  him  with  all  voted  him  first-class." 

"  Craque-o'-Doom  !     That  isn't  his  name  ?" 

"  His  name's  Sutton.  I  don't  know  how  he  got 
the  other,  but  that's  what  he's  called.  I  do  hope 
you'll  be  good  to  him  while  he's  here :  he'll  be  apt 
to  take  to  you.  And  he's  a  rare  gentleman : 
there's  something  delicate  and  fine  about  his  na- 
ture. It  is  like  a  woman's ;  and  yet,  deformed  as 
he  is,  I  never  thought  him  effeminate." 

"  I  am  anxious  to  meet  him  :  I  always  like  new 
experiences  and  unusual  people.  Won't  he  be 
visible  this  evening  at  all  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  exclaimed  Tom.  "  Come  up- 
stairs now.  He  and  I  have  been  having  a  good 
talk  ever  since  I  got  away  from  the  crowd." 

"  So  I  will.     Tamsin,  is  the  coffee  made  ?" 

Tamsin  came  up  the  room  to  Rhoda  and  paused 
beside  the  tray.      "  I   don't   think  it  is  yit,"  she 
replied.     "  Do  you  want  it  right  away?" 
e  6* 


66  CRAQlE-ff-nOOM. 

"  We're  going  to  carry  some  supper  to  the  gen- 
tleman up-stairs.  Yes,  he  will  want  coffee,  of 
course. — Captain  Tom,  have  you  got  a  little  pre- 
served ginger?  This  tray  looks  rather  tempting. 
We'll  take  it  ourselves." 

"  Of  course  we  will,"  said  Tom  :  "  Craque-o'- 
Doom  will  appreciate  that.  Ginger-root  ?  Yes, 
— Tamsin,  isn't  there  a  pot  or  two  of  preserved 
ginger  in  any  of  the  closets  ?  Aunt  Sally  would 
know." 

"  I  know  what  you  want,"  said  Tamsin,  stop- 
ping on  her  way  to  the  kitchen:  "as  soon  as  I 
tell  Ann  Maria  you  want  the  coffee  made,  I'll 
get  it." 

Rhoda  looked  after  her  approvingly :  "  That  girl 
has  great  adaptability.  She  has  improved  within 
two  or  three  days.  Do  you  know  I'm  interested 
in  her  ?  She  silently  attracts  me." 

"Does  she?"  said  Tom,  smiling.  "She's  an 
odd  creature.  Aunt  Sally's  had  her  about  the 
house  a  great  deal,  and  I've  tried  to  encourage 
her,  but  I  never  could  make  her  out." 

"  She'll  surprise  you  some  time  if  the  sun  ever 
shines  upon  her.  That  girl's  frozen  by  her  circum- 
stances. She  feels  nothing  but  the  pinch,  and 
thinks  nothing  but  rebellion.  Let  her  be  thawed 
and  fostered,  and  she  will  reveal  herself  in  a  way 
you  will  be  far  from  despising." 

"  I  hope  I'm  far  from  despising  any  woman." 


A   NABOB.  67 

Rhoda  looked  up  with  an  admiring  expression  : 
"  You're  such  a  man  as  women  cannot  help  ap- 
proving of.  Certainly  you  are  far  from  despising 
any  woman.  You're  a  universal  Wing  over  them  ! 
We're  waiting  for  that  ginger,  aren't  we  ?  I  won- 
der if  your  friend  likes  it  ?" 

"  He  probably  does.  In  his  camp-stores  he  had 
all  manner  of  odd  foreign  stuff.  He  has  queer 
tastes,  and  gratifies  them  to  the  utmost." 

"  He  must  be  a  nabob. — This  is  it.  Thanks." 
Rhoda  received  the  ginger-pot  from  Tamsin's 
hand.  Tamsin  hesitated  for  further  directions  on 
the  edge  of  the  conference. 

"  He  ?"  replied  Tom.  "  Craque-o'-Doom  is 
worth  his  hundred  thousands.  He  has  a  lovely 
place  down  at  Svvampscott,  they  told  me, — sum- 
mer-place,— and  a  rich  old  den  up  the  North  River. 
He's  rich  as  a  lord,  and  it's  a  good  thing  for  him." 

"  Of  course  it  is." 

"  He  has  bonds  and  stocks,  and  I  don't  know 
what  all.  His  family  was  a  first-rate  one,  too, 
but  I  believe  they  are  all  dead  except  himself. 
He's  desperately  fond  of  music.  /  think  he's  a 
sort  of  a  genius.  Oh,  you'll  find  him  out  by 
degrees.  I  don't  know  how  he  gets  on  with 
ladies :  he  doesn't  like  to  show  himself.  But  I 
have  seen  him  endure  staring  and  remarks  in 
perfect  silence." 

"  Take  the  salver  now,"  said  Rhoda,  "  and  we 


68  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

will  go  up  the  back  stairway. — Tamsin,  as  soon  as 
the  coffee  is  done,  bring  a  hot  cup  of  it,  with  cream 
and  sugar,  on  another  salver,  please." 


CHAPTER    VIII. 
"WHY  DON'T  YOU  SHUDDER?" 

AFTER  the  captain  and  Miss  Rhoda  had  gone 
up-stairs,  Tamsin  stood  beside  her  sister,  looking 
into  the  fire.  Tillie's  face  was  scorched  by  the 
pleasant  heat.  She  leaned  sleepily  on  the  back 
of  her  chair,  untroubled  by  her  elder's  train  of 
thought. 

Tamsin  lifted  one  of  the  claw- like  fists  from  her 
sister's  lap  and  looked  at  it. 

"  They're  clean,"  pleaded  Tillie  thickly. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Tamsin.  Her  palm  wandered 
over  the  sharp  protuberances  of  Tillie's  little 
shoulder-blades.  "You're  made  straight,  ain't 
you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Tillie.     "  So're  you." 

"  Do  I  look  tall  ?     Do  I  look  like  other  folks  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  you  look  pretty,"  added  Tillie. 

"  Did  you  see  the  little  man  that  Mis'  Teagarden 
took  up-stairs  ?" 


"WHY  DON'T   YOU  SHUDDER?"  69 

"  Uh-huh  !"  grunted  Tillie  affirmatively.  ''  I 
was  in  the  hall,  lookin'  for  you  to  come  back.  It 
scar't  me  so  I  run  to  your  room  and  jumped  under 
the  bed." 

"  Did  he  look  ugly  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  looked  orful !  He  walked  along  this 
way."  The  supple  child  dropped  from  her  chair, 
doubled  herself  up,  and  danced  across  the  floor 
with  her  legs  half  abbreviated.  Tamsin  watched 
her  without  comment.  The  effort  was  exhaust- 
ing :  so  Tillie  returned  in  the  natural  manner  to 
her  chair. 

"  Would  you  like  me,"  said  Tamsin,  "  if  I  was 
that  way?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  little  one  with  frank  deci- 
sion ;  "  I'd  run  from  ye  like  a  white-head.  Every- 
body would." 

"  But  if  I  had  lots  of  money  and  could  give 
you  everything  you  wanted,  and  was  that  way, 
wouldn't  you  like  me  at  all  ?" 

"  No ;  that  wouldn't  make  no  difference,"  ex- 
plained Tillie.  "  I'd  run  from  ye  all  the  same." 

Tamsin's  eyes  filled  with  anguish.  She  stooped 
over  her  sister  and  looked  into  the  light,  laughing 
eyes. 

Tillie  gave  her  a  bony  little  hug :  "  You  ain't  all 
hunched  up,  Tammie." 

"  But  I  might  'a  been !" 

Tillie  drew  her  lips  together  over   her  gums, 


7Q  CKA  Q  UE-  a -DO  OM. 

and  was  settling  against  Tamsin  to  meditate  com- 
fortably on  such  a  possibility,  when  the  elder  put 
her  by  :  "  I  must  take  that  coffee  up-stairs."  She 
put  the  necessary  things  on  a  salver,  went  into 
the  kitchen,  and  returned  past  Tillie  with  fragrant 
steam  issuing  from  a  cup  of  Dresden  china.  She 
had  daringly  taken  one  of  Aunt  Sally's  treasures 
for  the  service  of  the  dwarf.  If  that  heavy  Dres- 
den cup  and  saucer  got  broken,  Tamsin  Cheno- 
worth  dared  not  think  of  the  consequences. 

"  I  thought  it  over,"  announced  Tillie.  "  If 
'twas  you,  Tarn,  I  don't  b'lieve  I'd  run  from  ye. 
But" — Tillie  shook  her  forefinger  impressively — 
"  I  don't  want  to  see  that  chap  up-stairs  no  more" 

The  captain  and  Rhoda  had  been  hurriedly  de- 
manded down-stairs.  When  Tamsin  turned  the 
knob  of  the  chamber-door  after  knocking,  she  was 
surprised  to  find  only  the  occupant.  He  sat  com- 
fortably before  the  fire,  buried  in  an  easy-chair,  a 
table  at  his  side  holding  the  salver  Tom  had 
brought.  The  room,  like  all  the  other  rooms  in 
house,  was  spacious  and  high,  yet  he,  a  mote  of 
humanity,  remained  its  principal  point.  A  Persian 
rug  worn  silky  smooth  trailed  across  his  lap,  con- 
cealing the  lower  part  of  his  body:  it  was  a  con- 
stant habit  of  his  to  drape  himself  thus.  His 
blond  head  had  a  square  massive  look,  and  his 
neck  was  strong  and  cleanly  smooth  as  tinted 
ivory. 


"WHY  DON'T    YOU  SHUDDER?"  j\ 

Tamsin  saw  his  entire  face  for  the  first  time.  It 
was  not  weazen  and  shrunken,  but  ample,  deli- 
cately featured,  with  a  luminous  expression.  He 
wore  a  close-trimmed  moustache ;  the  head  tilted 
back  against  the  stuffed  chair  had  an  actual  manly 
beauty  of  its  own,  which  was  multiplied  when  he 
turned  his  glance  toward  the  girl.  His  eyes  were 
very  gray,  with  a  velvet  quality  hard  to  describe. 
They  were  large  and  set  wide  apart  under  brows 
so  full  of  expression  that  their  slightest  motion 
changed  the  whole  face.  He  looked  at  Tamsin, 
and  she  paused  inside  the  door  with  the  coffee- 
tray. 

Their  steady  gazing  on  each  other  was  first  re- 
alized by  the  dwarf.  He  smiled,  parting  his  lips 
over  teeth  as  fine  and  clear  as  polished  shells. 
"  Well  ?"  said  he  with  an  interrogative  accent. 

Tamsin  approached  and  set  down  his  coffee,  re- 
arranging the  other  salver  afterward,  so  that  every- 
thing was  within  his  reach.  Having  done  so,  she 
again  met  his  eyes,  resting  one  hand  on  the  table 
and  placing  the  other  behind  her.  Her  whole  ap- 
pearance, was  innocent  and  fascinating.  She  felt 
herself  in  an  atmosphere  which  gave  her  peculiar 
ease,  as  if  she  had  mental  lungs  inhaling  and  ex- 
haling an  air  full  of  scents  and  hints  and  influences 
of  some  higher  world.  The  same  feeling  had 
struck  her  on  early  summer  mornings  when  a 
branch  of  wild  roses  shook  dew  in  her  face,  or  on 


•j2  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

winter  evenings  when  the  sun  left  a  warm  red  bar 
above  snow-fields  and  skeleton  woods.  Of  this  sen- 
sation Tamsin  would  probably  never  speak  to  any 
other  palpitating  soul.  It  was  her  glimpse  of  im- 
mortality, her  recognition  of  the  fact,  "  I  have  lived 
heretofore  in  other  conditions  than  this,  and  I  shall 
live  again  in  glory  now  unknown  to  me."  Her 
face  had  no  self-consciousness :  she  was  for  the 
time  without  personality. 

The  deformed  man  said  suddenly,  the  words 
sounding  strange  to  his  own  ears  and  as  if  spoken 
by  some  one  else,  "  You  don't  shudder  at  sight  of 
me.  I  believe  most  women  do ;  but  you  do  not. 
Why  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  no  reason  to,"  said  Tamsin  slowly, 
as  if  weighing  her  convictions.  Taking  her  hand 
from  the  table,  she  turned  and  went  out  of  the 
room,  but  put  back  her  head  to  inquire,  "  Is  there 
anything  else,  sir?" 

"  No,  thank  you.  This  is  abundance, — more 
than  I  could  have  asked." 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  A    WHITE-HEAD.  73 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    FLIGHT    OF   A    WHITE- HEAD. 

BEFORE  the  young  ladies  came  down  to  their 
late  breakfast  next  morning  the  captain  and  his 
friend  had  breakfasted  and  started  for  a  short 
drive  in  the  latter's  carriage.  This  snug  vehicle 
was  of  the  coupe  pattern,  with  steps  particularly 
adapted  to  a  gentleman  whose  legs  were  only  a 
couple  of  spans  long.  The  padded  interior  had  a 
smell  of  wild  flowers. 

"  Drive  us  up  the  pike,"  said  Tom  to  the  stolid 
coachman. — "  On  the  ridge  you  can  get  a  good 
view  of  our  village,  Craque-o'-Doom.  It  isn't 
what  it  once  was.  The  bisection  of  the  National 
Road  and  Ohio  Canal  made  this  place,  and  the  in- 
crease of  railway-traffic  everywhere  else  killed  it. 
We  have  warehouses,  flour-mills,  and  distilleries 
standing  empty  and  idle.  That  pile  yonder  be- 
longs to  our  family.  My  father  let  the  business 
die  out,  and  I  don't  think  that  I  should  ever  care 
to  revive  it,  if  circumstances  were  ever  so  favor- 
able." 

"  What  occupation  do  you  claim  for  yourself?" 
said  Craque-o'-Doom,  lowering  the  window  to  get 
at  the  pleasant  winter  air. 
D  7 


74  CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 

"  Well,  I'm  that  lazy  dog  a  gentleman  farmer. 
When  I  came  home  from  college  I  was  full  of 
enthusiasm  about  law.  I  began  to  read ;  but 
about  that  time  the  war  broke  out,  and  after  my 
four  years'  service  I  found  the  old  estate  running 
to  seed,  and  settled  down  to  improve  it.  In  va- 
rious ways  I've  been  improving  it  ever  since, — 
experiments  here  and  fertilizers  there,  study  of 
crops  and  soils,  and  all  that  coquetting  with  labor 
which  the  out-and-out  farmer  despises.  If  I  had 
nothing,  I  should  be  considered  half  a  loafer ;  but, 
as  I'm  tolerably  well-to-do,  my  neighbors  think 
I  can  afford  to  loiter." 

They  heard  the  spat  of  boot-soles  on  the  flinty 
pike  behind  them,  for  that  hard-grained  thorough- 
fare clove  through  snow  when  all  the  by-roads 
were  covered. 

"If  I  had  been  allowed  to  choose  a  career,"  said 
the  dwarf,  "  I  should  have  chosen  something  that 
would  bring  oratory  into  play.  I  can't  imagine 
anything  greater  than  standing  before  an  assembly 
and  shaping  its  opinions." 

The  spat  of  boot-soles  now  overtook  the  car- 
riage, and  a  crew  of  five  or  six  small  boys  ran 
along  on  each  side  of  it.  "  That's  him  !"  panted 
one.  "  Here  he  is,  on  this  side!  He  aint  no  big- 
ger'n  a  baby !" 

44  L,emtne  see,"  struggled  another,  with  curiosity 
as  callous  as  if  the  dwarf  had  been  beyond  sight 


THE   1- LIGHT  OF  A    WHITE-HEAD. 


75 


and  hearing.  "  He's  got  arms,  'cause  I  see  his 
hand.  What  show  does  he  travel  with  ?" 

"Lookout!"  panted  the  others  in  warning  to 
this  bold  youth,  who  seemed  about  to  climb  upon 
the  step :  "  he  might  shy  somethin'  at  ye.  Them 
kind  is  bad  when  they  get  their  tempers  up." 

Craque-o'-Doom  laughed,  but  Tom,  in  high  dis- 
pleasure, opened  the  window  beside  him.  "  Boys," 
cried  he  severely,  "  get  away  from  this  carriage,  or 
I'll  have  you  all  locked  in  the  calaboose.  I'll  take 
clown  the  names  of  every  one  of  you.  Don't  you 
know  any  better  than  to  annoy  a  gentleman  in  this 
way  ?" 

They  fell  back,  somewhat  abashed,  but  one  said, 
"  Then  you  orter  take  down  Billy  Mac's  name  too. 
He's  up  behind,  peepin*  through  the  curtain." 

Captain  Mills  struck  back  at  the  curtain,  but  at 
the  same  instant  heard  a  thud  of  some  one  drop- 
ping on  the  pike.  "  The  little  scoundrels !"  he 
exclaimed. 

"  Don't  mind  it,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom.  "  I 
have  had  time  enough  to  grow  accustomed  to  my 
notoriety." 

Captain  Mills  put  his  head  out  of  the  window 
and  directed  the  driver  to  turn  into  a  by-street : 
"They  will  find  it  isn't  so  easy  to  follow  us  along 
the  soft  roads."  He  looked  back,  and  saw  the 
boys  reluctantly  giving  up  their  chase.  They 
seemed  aggrieved  and  disconcerted,  and  from 


76  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

among  them  came  a  well-aimed  snow-ball,  out 
of  the  arc  of  whose  descent  Captain  Tom  dodged 
into  the  carriage. 

The  winter  landscape  looked  desolate.  They 
crossed  from  one  street  to  another.  Detached 
from  other  houses  and  standing  among  the  skele- 
tons of  last  year's  cornstalks  was  one  house  which 
Craque-o'-Doom  pointed  out  as  embodying  his  idea 
of  all  that  was  dismal.  "Though,  with  appropriate 
hollyhocks  and  sunflowers  and  climbing  plants,  it 
might  look  better  in  summer,"  said  he.  "  But 
the  sodden  door-yard  and  bleak  background  are 
enough  to  give  a  mere  passer  the  blue  devils. 
How  do  people  support  life  in  such  places,  I 
wonder  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  place !"  replied  Captain  Mills.  "  That's 
where  Tamsin  lives, — Tamsin  Chenoworth,  the  girl 
my  aunt  has  with  her  up  at  our  house." 

"  She  opened  the  door  when  I  arrived  ?" 

"  Maybe  she  did." 

"  And  brought  up  my  coffee  last  evening?" 

"  Yes." 

"  So  she  lives  there  ?  Your  aunt  has  her  en- 
gaged as  a  servant?" 

"  Well,  no.  We  are  afraid  of  that  word  around 
here,  Craque-o'-Doom.  I  can  call  my  biack  man 
my  servant,  but  we  have  to  be  careful  how  we 
apply  the  term  to  whites  in  a  rural  community." 

"  Domestic,  then  ?" 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  A    WHITE.  HEAD. 


77 


"  Not  exactly.  Aunt  Sally  has  her  about  the 
house  frequently,  and  takes  some  interest  in  her. 
She  belongs  to  a  miserable  family,  and  seems  to 
have  rather  more  to  her  than  the  rest  of  them. 
Miss  Jones  has  taken  a  fancy  to  her,  too." 

They  had  passed  the  house,  when  they  saw  an 
old  man  picking  his  way  along  fence-corners,  car- 
rying a  chair  on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  up  with 
a  dull  eye. 

"  How  d'  do,  Mr.  Chenoworth  ?"  saluted  Captain 
Mills  good-naturedly.  "  That's  the  girl's  father," 
he  explained  to  Craque-o'-Doom.  "  The  old  fel- 
low mends  chairs,  when  he  can  get  them  to  mend. 
He  has  a  prodigious  family,  and  a  family  connec- 
tion that  ramifies  through  our  lowest  population. 
When  I  was  younger  I  used  to  have  romantic  ideas 
about  digging  up  and  fertilizing  this  lower  stratum, 
but  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  best  thing 
you  can  do  with  such  people  is  to  let  them  alone." 

"  Entirely  ?" 

"  No.  I  throw  jobs  in  their  way  when  I  have 
any,  but  I  don't  intrude  my  advice  or  expect  them 
to  have  the  political  intelligence  they  ought  to 
have,  considering  they  are  in  numbers  sufficient 
to  control  the  vote  of  the  township." 

"  The  women  of  any  kind  of  barbarians  always 
have  to  suffer.  Did  you  ever  think  of  that  when 
you  let  such  old  patriarchs  of  misery  as  that  one 
we  just  passed  gang  their  ain  gait?" 


78  CRAQUE -O"  DOO.V. 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do  for  their  women  ?  I  tell 
you,  Craque-o'-Doom,  these  poor  devils  whom  we 
pity  have  a  strong  aristocratic  tang.  There's  that 
girl  Tamsin  Chenoworth,  for  instance :  she's  as 
proud  as  a  queen  in  her  way.  She  looks  at  you 
furtively  and  suspiciously;  her  dignity  is  not  to  be 
jarred  by  any  fatherly  encouragement  or  advice. 
I'm  as  free  with  my  old  neighbors  as  any  man  can 
be,  yet  I  couldn't  say  to  her,  '  Tamsin,  you  had 
better  take  this  course,  or  that.'  If  she  goes  to  the 
dogs,  as  one  of  her  sisters  has  been  doing,  or  breaks 
out  with  the  family  weakness  for  stealing,  it  isn't  my 
fault ;  I  can't  help  it.  But  at  present  she's  a  very 
good  girl,  and  my  aunt  takes  an  interest  in  her." 

They  returned  home  long  before  the  mid-day  din- 
ner. The  young  ladies  were  lounging  in  the  back 
parlor,  in  Watteau  gowns  and  easy  slippers.  Jennie 
lay  on  a  sofa,  with  yards  of  garnet  cashmere  trail- 
ing over  her  feet ;  Louise  had  an  easy-chair  and  a 
hassock,  a  novel  and  an  amethyst-colored  shawl  ; 
but  Rhoda  Jones  rocked  vigorously,  stopping  at 
intervals  to  scribble  with  a  pencil  on  paper  held 
by  a  reporter's  clip  which  lay  in  her  lap.  "  I'm 
just  taking  down  some  impressions,"  she  had  con- 
descended to  explain  to  the  girls,  who  regarded 
her  performance  with  a  mixture  of  amusement  and 
dread :  they  were  afraid  the  remorseless  spider  in 
her  head  might  at  any  time  rush  out  to  seize  upon 
and  make  meat  of  them.  They  had  seen  her  dem- 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  A    WHITE-HEAD. 


79 


onstrate  that  material  is  material,  even  if  you  find 
it  in  your  blood-relations. 

"  If  you  take  down  impressions  of  me,"  requested 
Louise,  "  make  me  immensely  stylish.  I've  always 
wanted  so  much  more  style  than  I  have.  You 
might  pile  up  my  blond  tresses  and  leave  out  the 
switches  and  top  friz.  I  want  a  good  many  lovers, 
because  they're  rather  scarce  in  real  life." 

"  I  don't,"  murmured  Jennie  ;  "  I  want  just  one, 
— as  handsome  as  he  can  be,  with  blue  eyes,  and 
golden  hair,  and  a  moustache  the  same  color,  that 
droops  down  to  his  chin,  and  long  white  hands. 
And  he  must  dance  just  elegantly,  and  be  three 
or  four  years  older  than  myself.  He'd  always 
have  to  wear  nice  boots,  and  those  lovely  round 
coats  without  any  tails  to  'em." 

"And  probably  he  could  make  the  money  to 
buy  them  just  about  as  well  as  you  could,"  said 
Rhoda. 

"  Oh,  of  course  he'd  be  wealthy  and  polished." 

"The  gold-locked  men  out  West,  three  or  four 
years  your  seniors,  usually  have  the  polish  which 
grinding  for  a  living  gives  them,  and  the  wealth  of 
hope.  They  have  their  fortunes  to  make,  and  if  they 
dance  themselves  into  fashionable  society,  usually 
dance  into  debt  too.  '  Swing  low,  sweet  chariot.' 
Men  are  strong,  plodding  fellows.  Women  don't 
marry  angels  any  more.  It  made  a  great  fuss 
before  the  Flood." 


go  CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 

Tom  Mills's  voice  and  one  much  mellower  than 
his  were  heard  in  the  front  hall,  together  with  a 
tramping  and  lighter  patting  of  feet.  The  captain 
and  his  friend  were  taking  off  their  wraps. 

"  My  gracious!"  exclaimed  Louise,  starting  up. 
Jennie  kicked  her  train  off  her  feet  to  make  a  dart 
for  the  dining-room. 

"  Sit  down !"  said  Rhoda  Jones  menacingly. 
"  You  shan't  run  away.  I  could  shake  you  both  !" 

"  I  shall  die  if  I  have  to  look  at  him,"  pleaded 
Jennie.  "  He  turns  me  positively  faint." 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  does,"  said  Rhoda :  "  he's 
your  cousin's  guest,  and  you  are  bound  to  receive 
him." 

"  He  isn't  my  cousin's  guest,"  began  Louise, — 
when  a  door  opened,  and  Tom  entered  with  the 
dwarf. 

He  made  his  good-morning  bow  to  Rhoda,  and 
was  presented  to  the  younger  girls.  They  sat  in 
embarrassment,  looking  down  at  the  toes  of  their 
slippers. 

Craque-o'-Doom  found  a  ready  place  on  a  low 
hassock  at  one  side  of  the  fire :  it  spared  him  the 
confusion  of  having  to  scale  a  chair.  His  body 
tapered  abruptly  from  shoulders  to  feet ;  his  arms 
were  rather  long.  In  a  gentleman's  business-  or 
morning-suit  he  appeared  a  masquerading  child, 
while  sitting  still  or  until  he  turned  his  mature 
face  towards  the  beholder.  When  he  walked, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  A    WHITE-HEAD.          gl 

however,  his  short  legs  and  small  feet  seemed 
hardly  capable  of  carrying  his  upper  bulk.  He 
did  not  in  the  least  expect  any  attention,  and  his 
manner  was  modest  but  self-respecting. 

Rhoda  noticed  how  fresh  a  tinge  the  ride  had 
given  his  face.  She  put  the  reporter's  clip  aside, 
and  cast  a  warning  look  at  the  two  girls,  who  in 
their  turn  cast  pleading  looks  at  Tom. 

Tom  felt  complacent  about  his  own  inches,  but 
he  could  see  no  reason  why  any  woman  should 
not  find  Craque-o'-Doom  agreeable  society.  He 
stood  by  the  mantel  and  warmed  his  feet. 

"  Did  you  have  a  nice  ride?"  inquired  Rhoda. 

"  We  had  a  royal  progress,"  laughed  Craque-o'- 
Doom  :  "  the  populace  followed  us." 

"A  lot  of  the  town  boys,"  explained  Captain 
Mills,  with  a  lingering  shade  of  annoyance.  "  They 
tagged  the  carriage  as  if  we'd  a  live  boa-constrictor 
or  an  ape  inside." 

Louise  telegraphed  by  a  look  to  Jennie  her  con- 
currence with  the  boys'  opinion.  But  Jennie  was 
scanning  the  little  man's  face  with  astonishment 
that  she  could  do  so  without  screaming.  It  was 
rather  a  pleasant  sight  than  otherwise. 

"  You  couldn't  put  any  heroism  in  the  hero  of 
such  a  scene,  could  you,  Miss  Jones  ?"  said  he. 
"  I  understand  you  are  one  of  those  fortunate  peo- 
ple who  go  about  making  mental  photographs  for 
reproduction  in  letters." 


8  2  CRA  QUE-G'-DOOM. 

"  Do  you  call  that  fortunate  ?  Why,  I  have  often 
thought  my  lot  a  miserable  one.  If  you  would 
only  be  kind  enough  to  say  you  envy  me,  now  !" 

"  Certainly  I  envy  you  such  resources." 

"  Good!  I  always  wanted  to  be  envied.  It  has 
been  my  dream  to  stalk  about  the  world  so  fortu- 
nate and  immaculate  that  everybody  who  saw  me 
should  turn  fairly  green.  To  that  end,  I  am  always 
magnifying  my  good  luck  and  concealing  my 
crosses.  But  don't  ask  me  to  have  any  opinions 
about  heroism :  I  don't  think  I  like  it.  It's  a 
strained,  uncomfortable  effect ;  it's  stagey.  He- 
roic people  seem  to  stand  under  colored  or  calcium 
lights  in  a  tableau  with  the  curtain  just  going 
down." 

Craque-o'-Doom  laughed. 

"Ah,  I  like  such  things!"  exclaimed  Jennie 
spontaneously. 

The  dwarf  half  turned  his  face  toward  her  with 
respectful  attention.  But  Louise,  with  nervous 
precipitation,  sprang  up  and  begged  Captain  Mills 
to  come  into  the  other  parlor  and  try  a  duet  with 
her. 

"  Craque-o'-Doom  plays  capitally,"  exclaimed 
Tom,  moved  by  the  obtuse  zeal  of  his  sex. — 
"  Come  on,  old  man,  and  give  the  girls  some 
music." 

"  If  the}-  will  remain  seated  here  and  not  watch 
my  contortions  at  the  piano,"  he  icplied,  with  a 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  A    WHITE-HEAD.          83 

delicacy  which  touched  Louise,  "  perhaps  I  can 
entertain  them." 

"  Please  do,"  murmured  the  young  ladies. 

"  But  we  may  applaud  ?"  said  Rhoda. 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  applause,"  replied  the 
dwarf,  smiling,  as  he  rose. 

Tom  and  he  went  in  to  the  piano,  and  they 
heard  him  rolling  a  hassock  to  the  piano-stool 
and  saying,  "  I  have  to  mount  these  revolving 
light-houses  carefully,  you  know."  Then  the  keys 
responded  to  such  a  touch  as  had  never  before  vis- 
ited them.  He  began  playing  a  movement  from 
Liszt's  "  Tarantella." 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  is,"  murmured  Jennie. 
But  Rhoda  Jones  sat  rapt.  His  execution  was 
wonderfully  brilliant,  yet  of  so  sympathetic  a  qual- 
ity that  a  listener  was  always  strangely  moved 
by  it. 

Tom  stood,  with  one  hand  on  his  hip,  at  the  end 
of  the  piano,  and  watched  the  dwarf's  lithe,  float- 
ing ringers  with  interest.  He  would  have  pre- 
ferred a  good  tune  to  which  he  could  pat  his  toe 
in  accompaniment,  but  it  gratified  him  to  see  a 
little  monstrosity  like  Craque-o'-Doom  so  well  up 
in  a  higher  kind  of  gymnastics.  It  escaped  his 
observation  that  Tamsin  Chenoworth's  younger 
sister  was  at  the  long  veranda-window  flattening 
her  cheek  against  the  glass  in  a  vain  effort  to  see 
who  could  be  creating  such  sounds  within. 


34  CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

When  the  selection  was  finished,  a  feverish 
hand-clapping  in  the  back  parlor  succeeded. 

"  I  shall  not  touch  that  piano  again  while  I  am 
here,"  said  Rhoda  decidedly. 

"  Isn't  it  queer  he  can  play  so  ?"  whispered 
Louise. 

As  Tom  moved  out  of  the  way,  Tillie,  on  the 
veranda,  got  a  look  at  the  dwarf  wriggling  off  the 
piano-stool.  She  gave  a  jump  which  landed  her 
in  the  path,  took  to  her  heels,  and  banged  the 
gate  behind  her  in  a  mad  flight  toward  home. 


"GIVE   ME    YOUR  HAND." 


CHAPTER    X. 

"GIVE    ME   YOUR    HAND." 

A  WINTER  thaw  made  Barnet  the  most  dismal 
place  on  earth.  The  pike  stood  up  like  a  cause- 
way between  sluggish  streams  of  water.  A  land- 
scape of  mud  and  fog,  through  which  the  canal 
crept  like  a  yellow  snake,  cheered  the  looker-out. 
A  smell  of  stables,  of  fat  burnt  half  a  mile  away, 
and  an  all-prevailing  odor  of  old  clothes,  invaded 
the  most  unlikely  places.  Drip,  drip,  drip,  all  day 
and  all  night  long,  the  rain  splashed  from  the 
eaves.  And  there  was  no  pleasure  in  a  heaped-up 
fire,  for  it  suffocated.  The  homesteads  looked 
draggled,  and  smoke  trailed  along  the  ground, 
leaving  a  sediment  of  soot  on  fence  and  despon- 
dent tree.  Every  umbrella  perambulating  the 
streets  as  if  under  protest  said  to  every  other  um- 
brella it  met,  propelled  by  a  pair  of  high  boots 
with  pantaloons  stuck  in  them,  "  Well,  what  do 
you  think  of  this  weather  ?"  Trains  three  miles 
away  could  be  plainly  heard  breathing,  and  their 
whistles  seemed  shrieking  in  people's  front  yards. 

The  young  ladies  at  the  Hill-house  tried  to 
return  their  calls  before  the  date  of  their  depar- 

8 


86  CRAQ UE- O"  DO O.M. 

ture,  but  after  one  or  two  attempts  came  driving 
home  with  flecks  of  mud  on  their  faces.  Barnet 
streets  were  bottomless.  Tom  could  not  take  his 
deformed  friend  out  to  see  his  barns,  or  his  vine- 
yard on  the  side-hill,  without  the  risk  of  swamp- 
ing him  in  mud.  The  most  reliable  spots  of  soil 
had  grown  strangely  spongy,  and  pools  stood  on 
flat  surfaces. 

The  first  day  of  this  weather  the  inmates  of  the 
house  laudably  attempted  to  amuse  each  other,  but 
after  that  there  was  a  natural  falling  away  into 
groups  of  one  or  two.  The  girls  lounged  in 
Rhoda's  room,  where  there  was  an  open  fire,  de- 
claring that  the  register  in  their  own  apartment 
was  more  than  they  could  endure.  Rhoda  shut 
herself  in  the  small  library,  which  was  little  more 
than  an  alcove  off  the  back  parlor,  and  entered 
upon  inky  mysteries  which  she  called  blocking 
out  a  short  sketch.  Captain  Mills  and  his  friend 
had  each  other  for  constant  company. 

Tom  was  obliged  to  ride  away  late  on  an  after- 
noon to  attend  to  some  urgent  business.  "  If  we 
could  take  any  kind  of  a  vehicle,  I  would  ask  you 
to  go  along,"  he  said  ruefully :  "  the  drive  might 
be  better  than  moping  in  the  house,  though  I  don't 
relish  the  prospect.  You'll  have  to  try  and  amuse 
yourself.  I  guess  the  girls  have  all  taken  to 
novels." 

"  Don't  be  disturbed  about  me,"  said  Craque-o'- 


"GIVE  ME    YOUR  I/AND:'  8/ 

Doom.  "  Though  I  like  your  society,  as  you 
know,  I'm  accustomed  to  having  a  great  deal  of 
my  own.  A  fellow  of  my  sort  studies  his  re- 
sources. Do  you  think  I  shall  disturb  anybody  if 
I  thump  the  piano  softly?" 

"  Not  a  bit :  they  enjoy  your  playing." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  play,  but  to  see  what  you  have 
in  your  collection  of  music." 

"  You  won't  find  anything  to  your  taste,"  ex- 
claimed Captain  Tom.  "  The  fact  is,  we  ain't 
musical  .down  here.  The  girls  may  have  brought 
some  new  pieces,  but  that  old  yellow  pile  all  be- 
longed to  my  sister.  I  used  to  like  her  playing, 
but  I  didn't  know  anything  about  it.  Well,  I  have 
to  be  off." 

"  I  hope  you'll  have  a  pleasant  ride." 

Tom  twisted  his  face :  "  That  can't  be  done 
along  the  bank  of  a  yellow  ditch  oozing  with 
slush." 

"  Tamsin,"  said  Aunt  Sally  to  her  young  hand- 
maid, "  here's  a  new  calico  dress-pattern  I've  had 
around  the  house  since  last  summer,  but  never 
made  up.  That's  Merrimac  print,  and  will  wash 
and  wear  well.  This  sack  and  skirt  you've  got  on 
is  too  good  to  wear  about  your  work  in  the  morn- 
ings. You  ought  to  have  a  calico ;  and  now,  while 
there's  nothing  doing,  we'll  cut  this  out  and  begin 
to  make  it  up  for  you." 

Tamsin's  face,  richer  in  its  tones  and  softer  in  its 


38  CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

lines  than  it  had  been  a  week  before,  grew  warm 
with  a  flush  singularly  veiled  by  its  transparent 
olive  skin.  She  said  slowly,  "  I'm  much  obliged. 
If  you  will  let  it  go  on  my  wages — " 

"  Now,  nonsense  !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Sally.  "  I 
shan't  do  anything  of  the  kind.  It's  stuff  I've  had 
about  the  house,  and  it'll  make  you  a  good  dress : 
so  say  no  more  about  it,  but  let  us  get  to  work." 

The  capable  old  lady  got  out  her  lap  board  and 
shears :  she  had  a  poor  opinion  of  anything  not 
cut  on  her  lap-board.  She  cut  out  a  yoke  for  the 
calico  dress.  It  was  to  be  gathered  full  into  a  belt, 
hang  straight  without  an  overskirt,  and  have  a 
ruffle  around  the  bottom.  That  was  the  way  they 
cut  calico  dresses  just  after  the  war,  and  Aunt  Sally 
saw  no  occasion  for  changing  such  an  excellent 
fashion,  if  the  girls  in  town  did  rig  themselves  out 
and  cut  good  cloth  to  silly  waste.  Tamsin,  on  her 
part,  accustomed  to  the  more  ancient  cutting  of 
her  mother,  who  made  even  Tillie  look  like  a 
small  but  unrevised  edition  of  our  pioneer  grand- 
mothers, found  the  fashion  of  her  new  calico  pleas- 
ing to  her  sight.  She  dimly  foresaw  the  effect  on 
a  pliant  figure,  and  stitched  awkwardly  at  the 
gathers  while  Aunt  Sally  sewed  the  long  seams 
on  her  old  Wheeler  &  Wilson, — the  first  machine 
which  had  ever  come  into  Barnet. 

Over  its  clatter,  minor  and  major  chords,  swell- 
ing and  receding,  came  through  the  dining-room 


GIVE   ME    \OUR  HAND." 


89 


door  with  the  regular  lap  of  the  tide.  This  music 
stirred  queer  sensations  in  Tamsin ;  she  half  re- 
sented being  so  moved.  Time  and  circumstances 
melted  from  around  her ;  she  was  in  a  great  city, 
in  a  musky  atmosphere,  living  with  intense  eager- 
ness and  delight.  Or  some  dormant  unknown 
power  within  herself  half  awoke  and  muttered 
inaudible  promises  about  her  future. 

The  sewing-machine  clattered  on  until,  all  the 
long  -seams  being  done,  Aunt  Sally  took  off  her 
spectacles.  "  You  can  go  right  ahead  with  your 
work,  Tamsin,"  said  she.  "  I  must  have  my  nap 
before  tea-time.  There  was  a  remarkable  piece  in 
my  Banner  of  Light  I  wanted  to  glance  at,  too." 
She  added  afterward,  from  the  back  parlor, "  Tam- 
sin, come  in  here  with  your  work,  and  see  that 
this  fire  doesn't  go  down.  I  told  Neal  to  let  the 
furnace  die  out;  but  we  must  have  some  heat  in 
the  rooms  this  damp  weather." 

Tamsin  brought  her  sewing  to  the  grate.  She 
sat  there  alone.  The  eaves  dripped,  and  the  woods 
tore  rags  of  cloud  which  scudded  over  them. 
Craque-o'-Doom  played  softly,  as  if  he  were  whis- 
pering to  the  piano.  The  thread  knotted  as  if  it 
knew  it  was  in  a  Chenoworth's  fingers,  and  as  fast 
as  she  conquered  one  knot  another  harder  one 
challenged  her.  She  forgot  the  sound  of  the 
piano,  and  was  not  conscious  of  any  changes  in 
the  room,  until,  looking  up  vaguely  disturbed,  she 
8* 


cp  CRA  Q  UE-  O'-DOOM. 

saw  the  dwarf  sitting  down  on  a  hassock  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  fire. 

Neither  party  gave  any  sign  of  having  noticed 
the  other.  Craque-o'-Doom  warmed  his  delicate 
hands  at  the  blaze:  he  loved  fire,  and  huddled 
toward  it  as  toward  a  companion.  The  coals  mur- 
mured faintly  in  their  self-communing  way,  and 
occasionally  a  bit  of  slate  cracked  in  the  heat  and 
popped  over  the  bars,  as  if  entirely  dissenting  from 
what  it  heard  around  it. 

Craque-o'-Doom  looked  at  the  girl's  bowed  face 
and  motionless  eyelids.  Her  hand  went  to  and 
fro,  drawing  a  long  thread :  it  was  a  red  hand. 
Her  posture  was  one  of  reticence  and  repose. 

"  I  saw  your  father  this  morning,"  said  Craque- 
o'-Doom. 

Tamsin  raised  her  head,  her  black  eyes  seeming 
to  shoot  out  in  her  face.  She  did  not  speak,  but 
looked  thoroughly  on  the  defensive. 

The  dwarf  rested  his  gaze  on  her :  "  He  is  an 
old  man,  and  appears  as  if  life  had  not  used  him 
kindly."  This  mellow  voice  seemed  to  be  making 
tender  excuses  for  the  old  Chenoworth's  thriftless- 
ness.  "There  is  a  large  family  of  you?" 

Tamsin  replied,  under  constraint,  "  Yes." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?"  Here  again  he 
touched  her  bruises  with  a  delicate  hand.  He 
assumed  that  she  meant  to  do  something  in  the 
world. 


"GIVE  ME    YOUR 

y- 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tamsin  slowly  and  grop- 
ingly. They  still  looked  straight  at  each  other. 
She  added, "Something  forTillie, — my  little  sister." 

"  You  love  Tillie  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Tamsin.  But  the  change  in  her 
face  made  him  pore  over  it. 

"  Don't  you  love  your  father  and  all  your 
family  ?" 

Her  face  became  opaque  again,  just  as  cloud 
grows  dense  over  a  breaking  through  of  light. 
"  No :  I  hate  'em,"  she  said  deliberately,  as  if 
having  made  up  her  mind  to  this  confidence. 

He  appeared  to  weigh  the  statement.  "  I  have 
no  family,"  he  said  wistfully.  "  If  I  had  a  father, 
I  think  I  could  love  him." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Tamsin,  "  because  he  wouldn't 
be  good-for-nothing."  She  rose  up  suddenly, 
startled  by  the  loss  of  her  self-control  and  life-long 
reticence.  The  calico  and  scissors  fell  from  her 
lap.  "  What  makes  me  talk  this  way  to  you  ?"  she 
said  under  her  breath. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom.  His  eyes 
were  lambent ;  his  face  worked.  Tamsin  sat  down, 
and  reached  to  gather  her  materials  again.  He 
sprang  and  picked  them  up  for  her.  "  How  like  a 
frog  I  move  !"  he  muttered,  looking  up  at  the 
woman's  perplexing  face,  and,  turning,  he  walked 
across  the  room,  then  came  back  and  stood  before 
her.  "  Did  you  ever  see  anything  more  ridiculous 


Q2  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

than  the  figure  I  cut  ?"  he  asked.  The  girl  did  not 
reply.  She  looked  at  him.  He  put  his  hand  out 
and  seized  hers  with  a  grip :  "  There  !  Does  your 
flesh  creep,  child  ?" 

She  certainly  recoiled,  with  that  glow  under  the 
skin  which  was  her  habit  in  blushing.  Still,  the 
recoil  was  not  of  a  quality  which  expressed  utter 
aversion.  He  locked  his  nervous  fingers  about 
the  hand.  "  I  am  going  to  do  so  strange  a  thing ! 
Child,  you  are  miserable;  I  can  do  so  much  for 
you.  Give  me  this  hand, — marry  me  !  I  can  see 
great  possibilities  in  you.  You  shall  have  a  full 
life.  Why  need  you  live  like  a  slave,  when  I  can 
open  such  advantages  to  you  ?"  He  dropped  her 
hand :  there  was  the  sound  of  running  feet  coming 
down  the  front  stairway.  Tamsin  moved  quickly 
toward  the  dining-room  door.  "  If  you  can  con- 
sent to  what  I  have  asked,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom 
distinctly  but  guardedly,  as  she  turned  her  cheek 
over  her  shoulder,  taking  one  more  frightened 
glance  at  him,  "  reach  out  your  hand  toward  me." 

She  disappeared  through  the  door.  The  supple 
red  hand  lingered  on  the  knob,  was  thrust  sud- 
denly toward  him,  and  withdrawn  just  as  one  of 
the  young  ladies  came  into  the  parlor. 


THEIR   PLANS.  03 

CHAPTER    XI. 

THEIR    PLANS. 

RHODA  JONES  was  the  first  of  the  household  to 
draw  with  appreciation  toward  the  hearth-flame  as 
dusk  set  in.  Neal  had  remembered  the  fire  which 
Tamsin  had  deserted ;  it  glowed  up  to  the  chini- 
ney,  and  its  glimmering  cheered  Captain  Tom 
when  he  rode  by  to  the  stables. 

When  he  entered  the  room,  Rhoda  was  basking 
there, — alone,  as  she  supposed ;  but  while  Tom 
was  turning  himself  and  putting  a  boot-heel  on 
the  fender,  Craque-o'-Doom  let  himself  down  from 
a  sofa  at  the  other  end  of  the  parlor  and  ap- 
proached them. 

"  I  didn't  know  anybody  was  about,"  said  Rhoda 
with  a  start.  "  It's  so  dusky  back  there !" 

"  And  I  start  out  of  the  dusk  like  a  spider  out  of 
a  web  and  sling  myself  off  on  an  invisible  thread." 
He  leaned  against  the  mantel,  opposite  Captain 
Mills,  who  immediately  felt  gigantic,  and  said  so. 

"  I  feel  myself  turn  into  a  sort  of  Gulliver  when 
he  is  by,"  said  Rhoda.  "  It  seems  as  if  he  were 
the  proper  size,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  monstrous 
growths." 

"  You  are  very  kind  people,"   said   Craque-o'- 


94  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

Doom:  "I'm  sure  you  do  your  best  to  consider 
me  human."  He  laughed.  "  But  I  am  about  to 
tell  you  something  which  will  shake  your  faith  in 
me  as  a  model  pigmy."  He  braced  himself  against 
the  mantel  and  looked  up  at  Tom,  as  if  dreading 
that  veteran's  hard  sense  and  practical  force. 

"  If  I  am  de  trop — "  said  Rhoda,  half  rising. 

Craque-o'-Doom  motioned  her  back  into  her 
seat:  "Not  at  all,  Miss  Jones.  I  really  think  I 
want  the  support  of  your  presence. — Tom,  when 
we  were  roughing  it  up  in  Canada,  did  you  ever 
think  I  was  soft-headed  ?" 

"  Why,  no !  What  do  you  mean  by  '  soft- 
headed' ?  " 

"  I  mean  liable  to  turn  fool.  I've  expected  to 
have  a  lonesome  life  of  it,  and  prepared  myself. 
I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,  I  never  thought  of 
marrying  till  I  came  here.  Richard  isn't  the  shape 
to  attract,  and,  in  face  of  this  truth,  I  never  have 
done  any  woman  the  dishonor  to  think  that  my 
money  might  buy  her ;  but  not  two  hours  ago  I 
asked  a  woman  to  marry  me." 

"The  dickens  you  did!"  exclaimed  Captain 
Mills,  aghast.  "  Well,  that  was  better  than  slump- 
ing along  a  dirty  canal-bank  in  the  rain.  What 
did  she  say  ?" 

Craque-o'-Doom  folded  his  arms  :  "  She  didn't 
refuse. — Miss  Jones,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  candidly 
if  I  am  taking  unfair  advantage  of  that  girl." 


THEIR   PLANS. 


95 


"  What  girl  ?"  interposed  Tom.  "  You're  taking 
unfair  advantage  of  me.  I  don't  get  hold  of  the 
thing  at  all.  You  say  you've  proposed  seriously 
to  marry  somebody  ?" 

"  She  has  a  struggle  before  her  for  the  bare 
means  of  life,"  continued  the  dwarf,  still  address- 
ing Rhoda,  and  keeping  a  check  on  himself. 
"  Every  circumstance  is  against  her.  I  could  give 
her  education,  travel,  refining  surroundings.  I 
feel  certain  she  could  be  developed  into  a  remark- 
able woman." 

"  So  do  I,"  coincided  Rhoda. — "  It's  Tamsin," 
she  said,  nodding  her  head  toward  Captain  Mills. 

He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  walked 
across  the  room  whistling. 

"  Now,  do  you  think  it  would  be  an  unnatural 
and  horrible  thing  to — to — I've  been  puzzling. 
Perhaps  I  took  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  lonely 
child.  She  touches  me  so,"  pleaded  the  dwarf. 
"  Miss  Jones,  I  can't  tell  how  she  moves  me.  She 
is  a  mere  unformed  child  :  I  have  thought  I  might 
educate  her  and  leave  her  free.  But  that  wouldn't 
do, — that  wouldn't  do.  Besides — "  He  paused, 
and  broke  out  with  a  half-fierce  exclamation :  "  I 
want  her !  Do  you  see  me  ?  She  has  no  horror 
of  my  shape.  Isn't  it  wonderful  there  should  be  a 
woman  who  can  look  at  me  without  shuddering? 
Come  back,  Tom  :  I'm  not  going  to  be  sentimental 
any  further  than  this."  Captain  Mills  approached 


96  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

the  fire  with  his  face  awry.  "  So,  you  see,  I'm 
afraid  my  selfishness  is  going  to  take  undue  ad- 
vantage of  her.  But  now  tell  me  honestly,  both  of 
you:  if  I  make  her  my  wife  only  in  name,  and 
give  her  the  opportunities  she  ought  to  have,  and 
when  she  is  a  woman  let  her  choose —  A  great 
many  things  might  happen, — my  death,  you  know, 
— in  case  she  elected  not  to — "  He  looked  down 
at  his  hands,  as  though  he  held  his  ravelled  sen- 
tences hopelessly  there. 

"  Craque-o'-Doom,"  said  Tom,  resting  one  palm 
on  the  wall  above  the  mantel,  like  a  man  bracing 
the  established  order  of  things,  "  I'm  afraid  you're 
going  to  make  a  confounded  fool  of  yourself. — 
Excuse  me,  Miss  Rhoda. — Now,  what  under  the 
heavens  can  you  want  of  that  girl  ?" 

"  Captain  Mills,"  put  in  Rhoda  decidedly,  "  I 
think  the  whole  thing's  splendid.  I  never  should 
have  thought  of  it ;  but  it's  like  a  fairy-story  for 
Tamsin." 

"  For  Tamsin  ?  Oh,  yes !  But  see  here,  now. 
Here's  a  man,  he  has  money,  education,  and 
talents  enough  to  balance  his  deformity,  and  he's 
going  to  pick  up  one  of  our  Chenoworths  !  Why, 
Craque-o'-Doom,  they're  low:  they  couldn't  ap- 
preciate the  barest  idea  of  yours,  and  they'd  all 
prey  on  you  like  rats.  I  don't  say  but  the  girl's  a 
good  girl — " 

"  She  is,"  pronounced  the  dwarf,  frowning. 


THEIR   PLANS.  97 

"  But  she's  not  your  equal,  and  never  will  be." 

"  You  don't  know  that,"  said  Rhoda. 

"Pshaw!"  growled  the  captain.  "Why,  I'm 
thunderstruck  !  Marry,  man,  if  you  want  to,  of 
course :  you  don't  have  to  ask  my  advice  ;  but  I 
do  hate  to  see  you  stoop  down  to  the  gutter.  Oh, 
yes,  she'd  take  you  :  I  don't  doubt  it  for  a  minute. 
Why  shouldn't  she  f  But  after  you'd  mismatched 
yourself,  what  then?  Good  Lord,  boy!  you 
ought  to  see  the  whole  tribe  of  Chenoworths  ! 
A  pretty  connection  they  will  be.  Because  you 
are  unfortunate  in  one  single  particular,  there's  no 
use  in  throwing  yourself  away  entirely." 

"  Tom,  I  don't  expect  you  to  see  the  thing  as  I 
do,  and  a  man  of  my  sort  must  necessarily  suffer 
more  crosses  than  anybody  else."  The  dwarf's 
nostrils  flared,  and  the  clear  white  of  his  face  be- 
came more  apparent.  "  I  simply  beg  of  you  to 
forbear  with  me.  I  cannot  explain  to  you  how  I 
am  impelled  to  this  thing,  nor  how  I  regard  this 
young  lady,  with  all  her  drawbacks." 

"  This  young  lady"  Rhoda  patted  her  palms 
together. 

Tom  stooped  over  the  hearth  and  offered  his 
hand  to  his  friend.  They  exchanged  a  hearty 
grasp.  "  You  must  pardon  me,  Craque-o'-Doom. 
I  don't  mean  to  offend  you :  I  was  sort  of  taken 
back.  They  say  folks  always  will  meddle  with 
other  folks'  marriages.  I  won't  say  another  word." 

E          f  9 


9g  CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 

"But  what  are  your  plans?"  inquired  Rhoda 
with  energetic  interest. 

The  dwarf  replied  to  her  inquiry  with  a  puzzled 
face  :  "  I  haven't  any.  Must  I  make  plans  ?" 

"  Certainly.  I  am  going  to  be  married,  and  I 
have  lots  of  plans.  Are  you  going  to  take  charge 
of  the  child  soon,  or  let  her  be  as  she  is  awhile?" 

"Soon,  I  should  think,  if  she  is  willing." 

Tom  groaned.  Both  looked  up  at  him.  "  I 
didn't  say  anything,"  said  he. 

"You  didn't  make  half  so  much  fuss  over  my 
prospective  taking  off,"  said  Rhoda,  shaking  her 
head  at  him. 

"  The  whole  thing  is  so  new  to  me,"  pleaded  the 
dwarf.  "  I  don't  know  what  is  best  for  her.  I 
never  had  much  experience  with  women." 

"  You'll  have  to  ask  her  father,  you  know," 
mentioned  Captain  Mills,  pulling  down  the  ends 
of  his  moustache. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom  with  child- 
like simplicity.  But  his  eyes  still  turned  to  Rhoda 
for  counsel.  "  If  that  odd  preliminary  which  you 
call  getting  married  were  over,"  he  continued,  "  I 
think  I  should  like  to  put  her  to  some  good  schoo1 
of  your  choosing, — right  away." 

Miss  Jones  inwardly  ejaculated  over  the  weak- 
ness and  helplessness  which  men  are  constantly 
revealing  between  the  joints  of  their  noble  armor. 
Craque-o'-Doom  had  impressed  her  as  a  condensed 


THEIR   PLANS.  gy 

man  of  fine  quality :  he  ought  to  come  out  a  bold 
cavalier  under  circumstances  which  belittled  his 
brethren.  "  Well,  but  that  'odd  preliminary'  re- 
quires consideration.  You  have  to  prepare  for 
it;  you  have  to  set  a  day,  and  get  the  legal 
papers  and  a  minister;  the  friends  of  the  contract- 
ing parties  must  be  consulted, — unless  you  steal 
your  bride  away,  as  the  Romans  despoiled  the 
Sabines." 

The  dwarf  pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his  fore- 
head :  "  I  wouldn't  do  that,  of  course.  I  should 
want  to  take  her  honorably  and  deliberately  into 
my  care." 

"  Now  you're  talking  sense,"  exclaimed  the  cap- 
tain. "  Give  yourself  time ;  deliberate  over  it. 
Tamsin's  not  much  more  than  a  child,  as  you  say. 
Six  months  from  now,  if'you  insist  on  making  a 
match  of  it,  will  do  well  enough." 

"  But  meantime  she  ought  to  be  improving  her- 
self." 

"  Oh,  she  won't  do  any  worse  than  she's  been 
doing." 

"  You  would  counsel  me  to  let  her  lose  six 
months  of  her  best  time  ?" 

"  I'm  not  saying  anything,  mind.  Why,  man, 
you  act  as  if  she  were  a  suddenly  discovered  gem 
whom  nobody  could  properly  set  but  yourself!" 

"  You  never  thought  of  setting  her  or  bringing 
out  her  brilliancy,  did  you  ?" 


IOO  CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 

"  No,  I  never  did :  the  Chenoworths  are  too 
many  for  me.  If  I  began  that  sort  of  thing,  I'd 
never  get  to  the  end  of  it" 

"  What  you  have  to  do,"  exclaimed  Rhoda  with 
a  slight  tinge  of  impatience,  "  is  to  consult  Tamsin 
and  see  what  she  wishes." 

Craque-o'-Doom  folded  and  unfolded  his  arms 
and  braced  himself  more  firmly  against  the  mantel : 
"  Miss  Jones,  you  are  very  kind,  and  you  know  a 
young  girl  better  than  I  do.  Perhaps,  after  all,  I 
have  presumed  in  taking  a  mere -motion  of  hers 
for  a  consent  which  I  very  much  desired.  If  you 
would  see  her — " 

"  Tamsin  never  has  much  to  say  for  herself," 
corroborated  Tom  in  a  relieved  tone. — "  If  you 
had  a  downright  talk  with  her,  Miss  Rhoda — " 

"  I'd  try  to  make  her  appreciate  the  position," 
said  Rhoda. 

A  tinkle  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  followed 
by  the  mild  outblooming  of  a  wax  light,  another 
and  another,  called  their  attention  to  Tamsin  light- 
ing the  three-branched  candlestick  on  a  table. 
Aunt  Sally  had  sent  her  down  by  way  of  the  front 
stairway  to  supply  Neal's  place  while  he  went  on 
an  errand.  The  group  remained  silent  while  she 
wheeled  the  table  forward.  She  then  carried  a 
taper  to  the  candlestick  at  each  end  of  the  mantel. 

Both  men  looked  at  her  as  she  stood  on  the  rug 
extending  her  arm. 


THEIR  PLANS.  IO1 

"We  were  just  talking  about  you,  Tamsin," 
said  Captain  Mills.  "  You'd  better  leave  the  light- 
ing up  to  somebody  else :  these  two  want  to  say 
something  to  you." 

"Now,  if  that  isn't  just  like  a  man!"  thought 
Rhoda.  "  He  puts  things  in  a  jumble  and  expects 
somebody  else  to  get  them  out." 

Having  touched  the  candles,  Tamsin  threw  her 
burnt  taper  into  the  grate.  She  stood  with  her 
eyes  down,  visibly  quivering. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Miss  Jones,  drawing  her  to  a 
convenient  chair.  "  Don't  be  alarmed  by  this  sol- 
emn fuss:  it's  in  the  masculine  nature  to  be  pom- 
pous and  cumbersome.  Captain  Mills  merely 
wanted  to  congratulate  you.  Mr.  Sutton  has  been 
telling  us,  you  see.  I  congratulate  you  with  all 
my  heart:  I  think  it's  wonderful  and  delightful. 
You're  quite  the  heroine  of  a  fairy-story.  While 
I  consider  fairies  things  of  the  imagination,  and 
sentiment  quite  out  of  place  in  this  present  world, 
there's  some  sentiment  or  witchery  in  this  which 
I  appreciate."  While  Rhoda  rattled  ahead,  the 
younger  girl  was  gazing  at  her  with  piteous  appeal, 
as  if  in  a  torment  she  could  not  express,  and  the 
dwarf  in  some  pliant  and  bewildered  mood  strange 
to  his  experience,  waiting  to  be  placed  or  guided. 
— "  Captain  Mills,  you  haven't  taken  Tamsin  by 
the  hand  and  congratulated  her  formally,  however 
you  may  have  done  with  Mr.  Sutton." 

9* 


102  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

The  captain  took  Tamsin's  motionless  hand  and 
congratulated  her,  with  helpless  grooves  in  his 
cheeks.  She  made  no  response. 

"  And  now,"  said  Rhoda,  seizing  her  wrist  in  a 
confidential  way,  "  Mr.  Sutton  says  he  will  see 
your  family  at  once." 

Tamsin  winced.  Rhoda  felt  it,  and  patted  her 
hand  caressingly. 

"  If  you  wish  it,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom,  gazing 
on  her  averted  face,  "  if  you  wish  to — to  come  into 
my  care.  If  you  do  not,  my  child,  I  will  think 
nothing  of  the  little  sign  you  were  so  kind  as  to 
give  me.  It  would  be  my  desire  to  take  you  away 
with  me  immediately  and  place  you  where  you 
could  be  educated  under  the  oversight  of  a  lady 
like  Miss  Jones.  But  if  you  would  rather  take  six- 
months  to  think  about  it,  I  will  leave  at  once  and 
wait.  Or  I  will  go  and  never  come  back  again,  if 
you  say  so." 

Tamsin  sat  like  a  stone  figure. 

„'     "  Well,  Tamsin  ?"  said  Captain  Mills  interrog- 
atively.    He  felt  strained  and  annoyed. 

It  was  a  surprise  to  see  Tamsin  turn  toward 
him.  She  looked  up  his  length  and  dwelt  on  his 
lace ;  then  she  looked  at  her  wooer.  He  was 
turning  whiter  every  moment.  "  I  could  go  now,'1 
she  said  "  But  there's  Tillie." 

"  You  can  hsve  her  with  you,"  said  Cracjue-g'* 
Doom, 


THEIK   PLANS. 


103 


Rhoda  noticed  a  tremor  pass  through  the  wrist 
she  held. 

"  Thank  you." 

"  I  thank  you"  said  the  dwarf.  He  shaded  his 
face  with  his  hand.  "  You  can  have  your  sister 
with  you  in  everything,"  he  continued,  "  and  give 
her  whatever  you  wish." 

"Thank  you,"  whispered  Tamsin,  again. 

"  You  see,  I  don't  want  to  make  you  unhappy 
in  any  way,"  explained  Craque-o'-Doom. 

Tamsin  looked  into  the  fire. 

"  Now,  Tamsin —  '  said  Aunt  Sally,  entering 
from  the  dining-room. — "  Why,  here  you  all  are 
around  the  fire. — Tamsin  ?"  She  put  on  her  glasses 
and  looked  at  them  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  We're  going  to  part  with  Tamsin,  aunt,"  said 
Tom,  wheeling  slowly.  "  My  friend  here  proposes 
to  marry  her  and  send  her  to  school." 

Aunt  Sally  stared  at  every  one  in  turn  :  "  Who  ? 
— Mr.  Sutton?  Going  to  marry  Tamsin  ?''  The 
unnatural  ness  of  such  a  match  rendered  her  speech- 
less. She  said  no  more,  but  went  to  the  table,  and, 
taking  up  Andrew  Jackson  Davis,  began  to  turn 
the  leaves  with  an  air  of  intense  preoccupation 
and  interest. 

The  clock  ticked  very  loud.  But  Rhoda  kept 
on  patting  and  stroking  that  poor  hand  which  wa.<$ 
being  given  away  under  general  disapproval. 


CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

TILLIE. 

IT  was  the  very  next  forenoon  that  old  Mr. 
Chenoworth  was  surprised  by  a  call  from  the 
dwarf.  He  was  hammering  at  a  chair-bottom. 
The  naked  floor  showed  a  stain  or  two  of  grease, 
trodden  into  it  by  careless  feet  around  the  break- 
fast-table ;  his  wife  sat  mending  variegated  trou- 
sers ;  Sarah  Jane,  with  her  sickly  baby  on  her  hip, 
trailed  disconsolately  about  at  some  domestic  task; 
ridges  of  dry  mud  stood  on  the  rough  boards ;  a 
sobbing  stick  of  wood  on  the  rusty  fire-irons  sent 
out  puffs  of  smoke  at  the  old  man,  as  if  to  further 
cure  his  dry,  shrivelled  skin. 

Tillie  leaned  against  the  unpainted  strip  which 
served  as  window-sill,  in  one  of  her  rare  quiet 
moods.  Her  eyes  looked  deep,  and  her  lips 
moved  occasionally  as  she  told  some  story  to  her- 
self or  repeated  odd  scraps  and  words  which  the 
outside  world  suggested  to  her.  "  I  see  a  horse 
and  buggy  comin',"  droned  Tillie.  "  It's  Tamsin, 
comin'  to  take  me  to  a  picnic  'way  up  in  the  clouds. 
We'll  wear  dresses  that  hang  out  behind  us  ever 
so,  like  them  girls  up  at  Mills's.  We'll  have  tur- 


TILL  IE.  IO,j 

key  and  cake  and  ice-cream.  Here's  the  carriage. 
Stop,  carriage,  and  let  me  git  in. — It  is  a-stoppin'!" 
concluded  the  child  in  astonishment. — "Daddy, 
the's  somebody  come." 

"  It's  just  Arter,"  said  Sarah  Jane  :  "  I  saw  him 
crossin'  the  common." 

"  'Tain't,  either.  Oh,  my  !  let  me  git  under  the 
bed ! — It's  that  little  bit  of  a  man,  mammy  !  He's 
comin'  into  our  house  !" 

Out  of  the  mud-splashed  coupe  Craque-o'- 
Doom  descended  to  the  gate,  and  made  his  way 
with  difficulty  on  chips  and  bits  of  board  to  the 
door-step. 

"  You  open  the  door,  Sary  Jane,"  said  Mrs. 
Chenovvorth  when  his  rap  was  heard. — "  Come 
out  from  behind  my  cheer,  Tillie.  Nobody  ain't 
goin'  to  hurt  you.  How  simple  you  are !" 

The  old  man  suspended  his  chair-mending  as 
Sarah  Jane  opened  the  door  and  stood  with  her 
baby  on  her  hip.  The  dwarf  lifted  his  hat :  "  Is 
Mr.  Chenoworth  at  home?" 

"Yes;  he's  here.  Will  you  come  in?"  He 
came  in,  and  Tillie  disappeared  behind  her  mother. 

To  a  suitor  of  his  organization,  the  place  was 
most  trying.  These  untutored  people  looked  at 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  strange,  harmless  reptile. 
Sarah  Jane's  baby  began  to  cry,  and  she  felt  war- 
ranted to  assure  it  audibly, "  Hush,  you  little  cross- 
patch  !  'Twon't  hurt  ye !" 


106  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

Tom  had  offered  to  come  with  his  friend,  but 
Craque-o'-Doom  spared  him. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Chenoworth  ?"  said  the  dwarf,  ad- 
dressing the  old  man.  "  Yes,  I  remember  your  face : 
I  saw  you  passing  along  the  road  a  few  days  ago." 

The  chair-maker  dropped  his  under  jaw  and 
peered  round-eyed  through  his  spectacles.  To 
hear  of  a  dwarf  is  one  thing  ;  to  see  him  striding 
on  span-long  legs  before  you  is  another. 

"  Set  a  cheer,  Sary  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Chenoworth 
in  a  doubtful  tone ;  but  their  visitor  scaled  it 
dexterously. 

"  It's  very  muddy  weather,"  volunteered  Sarah 
Jane  in  addition.  She  wanted  people  to  know  she 
had  been  away  from  Barnet  and  knew  how  to  act 
in  company,  if  she  was  unfortunate. 

"  Yes,  the  road  is  bad,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom. 
He  saw  the  smoke-grimed  walls,  the  dull,  poverty- 
tried  faces."  Tillie  peeped  cautiously  around  the 
legs  of  her  mother's  chair,  and  he  saw  her. 

"  That's  my  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Chenoworth,  with 
a  diffident  cough  and  toothless  smile.  "  She's 
afeard." 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  Tillie,"  begged  Craque- 
o'-Doom  with  a  thread  of  pain  in  his  voice.  But 
Tillie  quite  disappeared  and  stuffed  herself  under 
the  chair-seat.  His  actually  knowing  her  name 
was  so  uncanny !  "  Come  out  and  talk  to  me. 
I've  brought  you  a  message  from  Tamsin," 


TILLIE.  I07 

Tillie  ruminated  before  she  looked  cautiously  at 
him  again.  He  sat  quite  still  and  harmless;  his 
legs  hung  down  a  very  little  distance,  but  his  face, 
though  it  wore  an  anxious  look,  rather  won  on 
her  favor. 

"  Tillie,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  "  if  you  don't  come 
out  o'  there,  I'll  pull  ye  out,  or  git  Arter  to. 
Folks  '11  think  you  ain't  learnt  no  manners." 

The  hulking  cousin  had  just  entered  through 
the  back  door.  He  was  a  domestic  loafer,  who 
preferred  a  kindred  fireside  to  the  down-town 
store-counters.  After  a  prolonged  gaze  at  Craque- 
o'-Doom,  he  took  a  seat  by  the  chimney,  and  sat 
evidently  congratulating  himself  on  being  there 
for  the  occasion. 

"What  word  did  she  send?"  inquired  Tillie, 
popping  her  head  wearily  around  the  chair. 

"  She  would  like  to  have  you  come  and  take 
hold  of  my  hand." 

"  I  can't  do  that,  ary  time." 

"  You  mustn't  mind  what  she  says,"  observed 
Mrs.  Chenoworth,  with  an  apologetic  glimmer  on 
her  face.  "  We've  humored  Tillie  so  much  she's 
spilet." 

Mr.  Chenoworth  had  been  wondering  what  this 
visit  meant.  He  now  made  a  motion  as  if  he  in- 
tended to  resume  his  chair-mending,  but  checked 
himself  and  hospitably  requested  Arter  to  give  that 
'ere  stick  of  wood  a  kick  and  make  it  burn  better. 


Iog  CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

Arter  kicked  it  with  a  boot  very  much  out  of  repair, 
and  upset  one  of  the  andirons,  righted  it  with  his 
calloused  hand,  and  jumped  at  the  burn,  grinning 
around  on  the  other  inmates  as  he  rubbed  and 
nursed  his  hand  on  his  knee. 

How  cloddish  and  unsavory  poor  Tamsin's 
people  were !  They  seemed  to  have  neither  the 
instinctive  method  of  brutes  nor  the  reasoning  fore- 
thought of  man. 

"  I  came  to  speak  to  you  about  your  daughter 
Tamsin,  Mr.  Chenoworth,"  said  the  dwarf. 

The  old  man  made  a  grimace  by  twisting  up  one 
side  of  his  cheek,  which  he  scratched  with  dirty 
nails.  "  What's  she  been  doin'  ?"  he  inquired  dis- 
consolately. 

"  Nothing, — except  making  friends  who  esteem 
her."  Craque-o'-Doom's  refined  face  put  on  an  ap- 
pealing expression.  He  felt  more  distressed  and 
at  a  greater  disadvantage  than  ever  before  in  his 
life.  "  I  want  to  marry  her  and  take  her  away 
with  me,  if  you  consent  to  it." 

Mr.  Chenoworth  bent  forward,  puckering  his 
tufted  gray  brows.  He  gave  a  half-humorous 
chuckle :  "  Sho,  now !  You  don't  want  to  git 
married?  What  do  you  want  to  git  morried  for?" 

"  I  am  wealthy,"  the  dwarf  continued,  his  steel- 
gray  eyes  glowing  with  white  heat :  "  I  can  give 
her  every  luxury  and  advantage,  with  the  only 
drawback  that  you  see, — a  deformed  husband.  She 


T1LL1E. 


IO9 


has  signified  her  willingness  to  take  me,  but  of 
course  I  want  the  sanction  of  her  parents." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  existence,  Craque-o'- 
Doom  felt  the  arrogant  power  of  money.  "  I  am 
wealthy"  swept  over  his  listeners  like  a  wave  which 
returned  to  him  bearing  a  full  freight  of  deference. 

"  Tamsin's  a  good  girl,"  murmured  Mrs.  Cheno- 
worth. 

"  She  is,  madam.  And  I  will  do  everything  in 
my  power  to  make  such  a  woman  of  her  as  you 
will  be  proud  of." 

Sarah  Jane's  face  puckered  with  a  spasm  of  envy. 
She  shook  the  whimpering  baby.  Arter,  with 
the  mouth  and  eyes  of  a  fish,  sat  devouring  this 
astounding  scene. 

"  How  much  might  you  be  worth,  Mister ?" 

inquired  the  old  man,  affecting  a  cautious  tone. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom, 
taking  a  card-case  from  an  inner  pocket.  "  Here 
is  my  name  and  address :  in  my  confusion  at  first 
I  forgot  to  introduce  myself.  You  can  make  in- 
quiries about  me  of  Captain  Mills,  one  of  your  most 
reliable  "neighbors." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  old  man,  nervously  doubling 
the  pasteboard  with  his  fingers,  while  his  mind 
staggered  beneath  this  new  weight  of  courtesy,  "  I 
knowed  who  you  was,  and  that  you  b'longed  up 
at  the  Hill-house.  The  boys  they  seed  you  ;  Tillie 
she  seed  you,  too.  I  s'pose  it's  all  right." 

10 


HO  CRAQUE-ff-DOO.M. 

"As  to  the  question  you  asked,"  continued 
Craque-o'-Doom,  "  I  have  property  amounting  to 
several  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  I  have  a 
good  head  for  managing  it." 

Mrs.  Chenoworth  had  dropped  her  sewing  and 
leaned  her  head  to  one  side.  The  old  man  gave  a 
gasp  and  swallowed  :  "  Sho  !  Did  you  make  all 
that  in  the  show-business  ?" 

"  I  never  was  in  any  show-business.  I  inherited 
it  from  my  father." 

Mr.  Chenoworth  stared  in  a  trance  of  astonish- 
ment that  so  much  wealth  should  be  not  only 
within  hearing  distance,  but  on  the  border  of  his 
family. 

"  Well,  what  is  your  answer  ?"  said  the  dwarf, 
anxious  to  bring  this  conference  to  a  close. 

"  Oh,  I  s'pose  it's  all  right. — Ain't  it,  mammy  ?" 
responded  the  old  man  with  an  affected  indifference 
not  to  be  found  outside  of  the  poor-white  type. 

"  I  hain't  no  objections,"  said  Mrs.  Chenoworth 
in  a  quavering,  deferential  tone.  "  The  children 
gener'ly  does  as  they  want  to." 

"  Thanks  !  Then  I  may  marry  your  daughter 
from  your  house?  I  prefer,  on  all  accounts,  to 
take  her  directly  from  her  own  home."  All  eyes 
roamed  about  the  place  and  came  back  to  Craque- 
o'-Doom.  Queer  as  his  figure  was,  he  looked  so 
daintily  foreign  to  such  surroundings  that  an  em- 
barrassed silence  followed.  "  I  think  it  only 


TILLIE. 


Ill 


proper,"  he  added,  "  that  her  own  parents  and 
home  should  give  her  to  me." 

Mrs.  Chenoworth  was  touched,  and  wiped  one 
eye  with  the  back  of  her  finger :  "  You  and  her 
can  git  married  here  if  you  want  to.  But  you're 
used  to  so  much  better  things  than  poor  folks 
has !" 

"  That  will  make  no  difference  whatever." 
Craque-o'-Doom  moved  to  descend  from  his 
chair,  when  Tillie  advanced  and  stood  within  a 
few  feet  of  him.  She  had  gradually  crept  out  of 
her  concealment  and  stretched  her  thin  neck  after 
every  item  of  the  conversation.  He  waited,  and 
smiled  kindly  into  her  pale-blue  eyes  :  "  Will  you 
shake  hands  with  me  when  I  am  your  brother?" 

"  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  my  brother,"  resisted 
Tillie.  "  You're  too  little."  She  puckered  her 
face  and  drew  a  sob. 

"  Tut-tut !"  said  the  old  father  sharply. 

"  But  you  may  go  with  Tamsin,  and  she  will 
give  you  everything  in  the  world  you  want.  Look 
at  me,  Tillie :  am  I  so  frightful  to  you  ?" 

"  You  don't  look  as  bad  as  ye  did  at  first.  But 
I  don't  want  you  to  git  married  to  Tamsin.  Her 
and  me  is  such  friends !  She  could  marry  her 
sister."  The  Chenoworth  idea  of  intermarriage 
appeared  to  have  no  limit  in  Tillie's  view. 

"  But  wouldn't  you  like  to  have  Tamsin  go  to 
school  and  learn  everything?" 


!  !  2  CRA  Q  UE-  a -DOOM. 

"  To  play  music  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  to  dance  like  them  girls  up  there?" 

"  Yes.  And  grow  so  beautiful  and  know  so 
much  that  you  would  be  proud  of  her?"  He 
drew  his  pictures  for  the  child  with  a  wistful, 
patient  tenderness  to  which  she  insensibly  re- 
sponded, and  which  touched  the  others  in  different 
ways.  Arter  sulked  forward  with  forearms  on  his 
knees ;  poor  Sarah  Jane  settled  into  piteous  long- 
ing; the  father  and  mother  listened  in  dazed  and 
stolid  silence.  "  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  her  in 
pretty  dresses  riding  behind  fine  horses,  or  in  her 
own  house,  which  is  very  much  prettier  than  Cap- 
tain Mills's?" 

"  Yes ;  I  wouldn't  mind  that,"  relented  Tillie. 
"  But  I  don't  want  her  to  git  married." 

"  And  wouldn't  you  like  to  go  with  her  to  the 
sea-side,  and  have  a  little  bathing-suit,  and  take 
baths,  and  watch  all  the  great  people  from  the 
cities  in  gorgeous  dresses,  and  have  a  pony  and 
carriage  of  your  own — a  wee  pony  so  little  you 
could  climb  on  him  from  the  ground  ?" 

"Yes;  I  wouldn't  mind  that,"  admitted  Tillie, 
with  a  deep  breath.  "  But  she  won't  like  me  any 
more." 

"  She  will  love  you  more  dearly  than  ever ;  she 
will  have  more  time  to  be  with  you.  You  may  go 
with  her  through  her  school  course ;  and  when- 


TILLIE,  n3 

ever  I  send  Tamsin  a  gift  there  will  be  one  for  her 
little  sister  with  it." 

"  He's  a  rich  man,"  said  the  old  father,  nodding 
to  Tillie  with  emphasis. 

The  child  kindled  with  anticipations  :  "  And 
will  you  git  mammy  a  new  coffee-pot  ?  The  old 
one  leaks  all  over  the  stove." 

"  Sh !"  hissed  Sarah  Jane,  while  the  mother 
wiped  her  eyes  and  laughed  weakly. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom.  "  Ask  her 
to  accept  this  as  a  present  from  Tamsin."  He  took 
from  his  breast-pocket  a  large  sealed  envelope,  in 
which,  before  starting,  he  had  placed  a  pile  of 
bank-bills  with  a  confused  desire  to  do  something 
for  Tamsin's  relatives  and  a  fear  that  he  could  not 
do  it  delicately. 

Tillie  approached  a  step  nearer  and  took  hold 
of  the  envelope  :  "  What's  this  here  ?" 

"  Something  which  Tamsin  sends  your  mother." 

Tillie  felt  of  it. 

"  Give  it  over  to  me,"  said  old  Mr.  Chenoworth, 
extending  his  hand.  The  child  obeyed  him.  His 
tone  and  his  greedy  motion  repelled  the  dwarf. 

Craque-o'-Doom  descended  from  his  chair  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand.  He  did  not  want  to  see  the 
old  man  pry  into  the  envelope.  A  sudden  shudder 
ran  through  him.  They  were  all  so  indifferent;  it 
was  like  barter  and  sale.  "  Tamsin  will  return 
home,"  he  said ;  "  I  will  send  her  down  in  my 


CRAQUE-O-DOOM. 

vehicle.  I  would  like  to  have  the — the  ceremony 
take  place  two  days  from  this  time.  She  can  make 
any  arrangements  she  pleases." 

"  I  s'pose  it's  all  right,"  repeated  Mr.  Cheno- 
worth  monotonously,  rubbing  and  gripping  the 
envelope.  He  was  embarrassed,  but  quite  uncon- 
scious of  behaving  in  a  singular  manner.  The 
deformed  man  magnetized  and  overpowered  him. 

"  She  ought  to  be  thankful  the  longest  day  she 
lives  for  such  a  chance  !"  burst  from  Sarah  Jane's 
fountain  of  general  injuries.  "  But  Tamsin  never 
will :  she's  too  big-feelin' !" 

The  dwarf  had  already  reached  the  door.  He 
bowed  himself  out,  apparently  not  hearing  this 
remark.  Tillie  followed. 

"  I  don't  call  it  much  of  a  chance,"  growled 
Arter,  lifting  himself  after  the  door  closed, — "her 
gittin'  married  to  a  little  bit  of  a  critter  all  shut  up 
together  like  that." 

"She  wouldn't  have  you,  Arter,  nohow,"  said 
the  old  man  with  a  hard-featured  smile  as  he  ran 
his  forefinger  under  the  flap  of  the  envelope. 

"  How  much  is  it,  daddy  ?"  inquired  Sarah  Jane. 
She  brought  the  baby  and  stood  by  him.  Arter 
looked  on  with  clogged  interest ;  the  mother  left 
her  mending  and  approached.  They  counted  the 
rustling  notes. 

"  As  much  as  three  hundred  dollars  !"  said  Sarah 
Jane.  "Tarn  can  have  everything  heart  can  wish, 


TIL  LIE.  n$ 

an'  me  a-slavin'  around,  and  this  cross  young-one 
— Shut  up,  or  I'll  slap  ye  good !" 

"  Tisn't  the  poor  baby's  fault  that  it's  here, 
Sary  Jane,"  remonstrated  her  mother  with  plain- 
tive resentment. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  crying ;  "  it's 
somebody's  fault  that  I  have  things  so  hard  and 
Tam  has  'em  so  easy !" 

Craque-o'-Doom  had  just  leaned  back  in  his 
carriage,  conscious  that  heads  were  staring  from  all 
the  little  houses  around,  feeling  an  odd  sickness 
at  heart,  and  convinced  that  Tatnsin  Chenoworth 
could  scarcely  fall  into  poorer  hands  than  those 
from  which  he  was  taking  her,  when  a  voice  called 
to  him.  He  looked  out  of  the  coupe-window  and 
saw  Tillie  sitting  on  the  gate-post.  The  driver 
started.  "  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom. 

"  I  said  I'd  thought  it  over,"  repeated  Tillie, 
"  and  I  don't  want  none  o'  them  things.  I  just 
want  Tamsin.  I  think  more  o'  her  ner  anything 
else.  Ye  can't  have  her."" 

Craque-o'-Doom  laughed,  feeling  his  breath 
come  more  freely.  He  threw  a  kiss  at  the  tallow- 
colored  child  as  his  vehicle  started. 

"  Ph  !"  blew  Tillie,  dabbing  her  hand  at  him  in 
a  resentful  fashion.  "  You  quit  throwin'  your  old 
kisses  at  me :  I  won't  have  'em.  Tamsin's  my 
sister;  she  ain't  yours.  And  you  can't  git  her 
for  kisses,  neither:  so  you  stop  your  old  self." 


1 1 6  CRA  Q  UE-  CT-DO  OM. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE   ODD    PRELIMINARY. 

PERHAPS  there  never  was  a  more  wretched  day 
than  the  one  appointed  for  solemnizing  the  tie 
which  Craque-o'-Doom  had  called  "  that  odd  pre- 
liminary." Mud  and  sky  seemed  longing  to  meet, 
and  a  driving  rain  did  its  best  to  create  such  a 
union.  Smoke  and  draggling  cloud  could  not  be 
distinguished.  Farmers  coming  to  the  village  on 
loaded  wagons  were  obliged  to  turn  out  of  the 
impassable  roads  and  open  ways  through  sodden 
fields.  The  Hill-house  party,  having  prolonged 
their  stay  from  a  sympathetic  curiosity  in  the 
dwarfs  wedding,  were  to  be  carried  with  him  to 
the  railroad-station  that  day, — a  nearly  impos- 
sible journey  had  not  the  railroad  intersected  the 
pike. 

Of  course  Tamsin's  preparations  were  small. 

"  If  you  will  be  so  kind,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom 
to  Rhoda,  "  as  to  take  her  in  charge  and  buy  her 
a  full  outfit  when  we  reach  the  city,  I  shall  be 
under  further  obligations." 

"  Don't  feel  distressed  about  any  obligations," 
urged  Miss  Jones  :  "  there's  nothing  I  delight  in 


THE    ODD   PRELIMINARY. 


117 


more  than  spending  money.  I  never  had  much 
of  my  own  to  spend,  and  I  take  a  savage  joy  in 
getting  hold  of  other  people's  and  disbursing  it. 
I  know  just  what  Tamsin  wants, — she  wants  pretty 
nearly  everything,  poor  child  ! — and  you  may  rely 
on  me  to  choose  it  for  her." 

Jennie  and  Louise  convened  in  Rhoda's  room, 
and  were  anxious  to  do  something  for  the  bride. 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  match,"  declared  Jen- 
nie ;  "  but  of  course  it's  a  great  thing  for  her.  Aunt 
Sally  says  her  sisters  turned  out  badly :  I  hope 
nothing'll  happen  to  disappoint  the  poor  girl.  Do 
you  suppose  she  likes  him?" 

Louise  shook  her  head  very  positively :  "  He 
isn't  bad-looking  in  the  face,  but  oh.  my,  Jen!  just 
think  of  walking  into  church  with  a  man  whose 
head  wouldn't  reach  the  top  of  the  pews,  and 
everybody  staring  at  you  !  Would  any  amo,unt 
of  money  make  you  do  it?  He  can't  dance. 
She'll  have  to  pay  some  attention  to  him.  If  I  had 
to  sit  at  home  alone  with  him  and  look  at  him  a 
whole  evening,  I  should  go  out  of  my  senses." 

"  So  should  I.  But  Cousin  Tom  is  so  mad 
about  it!  He  seems  to  think  Mr.  Craque-o'- 
Doom,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  could  marry  a 
princess  if  he  wanted  to.  I  wonder  if  he'll  get 
her  diamonds?  Oh,  wouldn't  she  be  in  luck  if 
he'd  die  and  leave  her  a  rich  widow  while  she's  at 
school !  It  must  be  splendid  to  be  a  young  widow 


I  i  g  CRA  Q  UE-  a -DO  OM. 

with  lots  of  money!  Widows  are  so  much  more 
independent  than  girls." 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  sentimental  in  that,"  re- 
marked Rhoda:  "still,  I  don't  quite  approve  of  it. 
But  you  needn't  go  to  overhauling  your  wardrobes. 
We're  not  to  sew  for  lamsin  or  bestow  anything 
upon  her:  she's  to  wear  a  long  cloak  over  her  red- 
and-black  dress,  a  felt  hat,  and  some  gloves.  They're 
my  things  ;  and  I  have  to  take  them  back  when  she 
gets  her  outfit." 

"  Won't  she  make  a  funny  -  looking  bride  ?" 
mused  Jennie. 

"  Poor  child !  She's  going  into  the  care  of  a 
good  guardian,  rather  than  getting  married.  I 
don't  think  of  her  as  a  bride,  but  as  an  adopted 
orphan  starting  to  boarding-school." 

"  It's  funny  to  watch  Aunt  Sally  since  this  busi- 
ness came  on  the  carpet,"  laughed  Jennie  :  "  she's 
so  puzzled,  and  so  kind.  She  doesn't  know  how 
to  treat  Tamsin,  and  she  looks  at  that  little  man 
as  if  he  were  a  frog  going  to  lap  in  a  fly  and  she 
ought  to  drive  him  ofif." 

Tamsin  had  gone  home  the  day  before  her  wed- 
ding. About  dusk  Craque-o'-Doom  drove  to  her 
father's  gate,  but  before  he  could  alight  she  came 
running  out  wrapped  in  her  old  faded  shawl. 
"  Don't  come  in,"  she  said  at  the  carriage-door, 
without  assigning  any  reason  for  the  request.  Her 
eyelids  looked  dark  and  swollen 


THE    ODD   PRELIMINARY. 

"  Get  in  the  carriage,  then,"  said  he.  "  You 
must  not  stand  with  the  rain  drizzling  on  you." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Tamsin ;  "  I  must  go  straight 
back." 

With  some  authority  he  turned  down  the  step 
and  drew  her  to  a  seat.  She  leaned  back  opposite 
him.  "  I  merely  came  to  see  if  there  was  anything 
else  for  me  to  attend  to,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom.  "  Is 
there  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tamsin.  Her  throat 
swelled,  and  the  exclamation  seemed  to  burst 
from  it:  "Tillie  can't  go!" 

"  Can't  go  with  you  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  They  won't  let  her.  They  say  she  mustn't 
leave  home."  She  hid  her  face  under  a  corner 
of  her  shawl. 

The  dwarf's  hands  trembled ;  but  he  locked 
them  together:  "Poor  child!  that  is  a  bitter  dis- 
appointment to  you." 

"  I've  never  been  away  from  Tillie." 

He  meditated  in  deep  disquiet :  "  But  they  will 
let  her  come  to  you  often  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  At  any  rate,  you  can  come  to  see  her  as  much 
as  you  wish."  After  an  instant  he  added,  "  Will 
this  make  any  difference  about  your  going,  my 
child?  It  is  not  too  late  to  drawback  yet;  a 


12Q  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

young  girl  may  change  her  mind  at  the  last  min- 
ute in  such  an  important  step.  Speak  out." 

Tamsin  put  down  her  shawl.  "  No,  it  won't 
make  any  difference,"  she  said. 

The  dwarf  gripped  his  hands  together. 

She  descended  the  step  to  go  into  the  house,  he 
helping  her.  The  old  shawl  caught  on  a  projec- 
tion, and  while  he  was  loosening  it  he  broke  a  bit 
of  the  fringe  off:  this  he  clutched  under  his  nails 
into  his  palm.  "  I  shall  come  for  you  at  ten  in  the 
morning,"  said  he. 

At  ten  on  that  dark,  ugly  wedding-day,  there- 
fore, the  coupe  stood  at  Chenoworth's  gate,  and 
Tom  and  Rhoda  dismounted  with  Craque-o'- 
Doom.  The  neighborhood  was  agog. 

Within,  the  preacher  then  stationed  with  Barnet 
Methodist  Church  waited  the  bridegroom's  party. 
The  room  had  been  cleaned ;  a  pleasant  odor  of 
coffee  came  from  the  kitchen.  Sarah  Jane  con- 
ducted the  party  into  the  single  other  apartment  to 
lay  off  their  wrappings  on  a  bed  where  her  baby 
was  asleep.  Tamsin  sat  here,  away  from  the  fire, 
holding  Tillie  on  her  lap.  The  child's  face  was 
hid  in  Tamsin's  neck.  When  Craque-o'-Doom 
approached  them  the  little  one  looked  up  and 
kicked  backward  viciously  at  him. 

Captain  Mills  made  an  uneasy  attempt  to  be 
pleasant  with  old  Mr.  Chenoworth,  who  had  shaved 
and  looked  more  cured  about  the  skin  than  ever. 


THE    ODD   PRELIMINARY.  I21 

in  spite  of  some  bleeding  cuts.  The  mother  had 
a  clean  white  cloth  folded  kerchief-wise  about 
her  shoulders ;  Mary  and  her  half-dozen  squalid 
children  were  there,  sitting  in  a  sallow  row,  all 
alike  excepting  in  size  ;  Arter  peeped  in  from  the 
kitchen,  scowling  at  everything  he  saw.  The  dom- 
icile had  taken  on  a  very  perceptible  air  of  im- 
portance :  everybody  in  the  street  knew  that  Tarn- 
sin  was  marrying  a  man  rolling  in  wealth.  Some 
neighbors  reprehended  the  match  :  they  would  not 
on  any  account  see  their  daughters  tied  to  such  a 
sight  as  that  dwarf.  Others  hoped  Tamsin  might 
never  come  to  grief  for  jumping  at  money  that 
way  :  Mary  and  Sarah  Jane  had  both  had  their 
come-downs :  Tamsin  wasn't  the  first  Chenoworth 
that  left  the  family  to  do  better  and  had  to  come 
back  to  it. 

There  was  a  gang  of  her  kindred  in  the  kitchen, 
collected  to  eat  at  the  wedding-feast,  but  not  on 
any  account  would  they  show  themselves  to  the 
fine  people,  though  their  noses  and  eyes  lined  the 
door-crack  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  dwarf. 

"They're  waitin'  on  ye,  Tamsin,"  said  Mrs. 
Chenoworth,  looking  into  the  bedroom. 

Craque-o'-Doom  stood  at  a  front  window,  but 
on  hearing  this  he  approached.  The  girl  put  her 
sister  down.  Tillie  turned  her  face  to  the  wall, 
and  refused  to  look. 

The  two  went  into  the  general  room,  where  the 

F  II 


j  2  2  CRA  Q  UE-  O'-DO  OM. 

minister  stood,  and  Tom  and  Rhoda  were  ner- 
vously trying  to  converse,  while  Mary  jerked  her 
sharp,  haggard  face  at  her  whispering  offspring 
and  motioned  the  yellow  cousin  she  had  married 
back  into  the  kitchen. 

Tom  turned  his  face  away  from  the  pair  when 
they  were  seated  side  by  side :  this  unusual  posi- 
tion was  an  accident.  Tamsin  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  Craque-o'-Doom  took  his  place  near  her. 
When  the  ceremony  was  finished,  Rhoda  inter- 
vened between  the  bride  and  a  rather  pompous 
parade  of  congratulations  from  her  friends.  Coffee 
and  some  other  refreshments  came  in,  served  in  a 
glaring  new  set  of  stone-ware  china,  interspersed 
among  which  was  a  cracked  plate  or  two  of  the 
old  stock. 

Then  Tamsin  had  her  wraps  on.  She  was  not 
troubled  with  luggage.  She  shook  hands  with  all 
her  people,  the  women  kissing  her  and  Mrs. 
Chenoworth  wiping  her  own  eyes  with  a  plaintive 
gesture.  None  of  them  approached  Craque-o'- 
Doom.  Tillie  made  a  plunge,  and  was  held  to  the 
poor  bride's  breast  until  her  wail  ings  were  some- 
what quieted.  She  took  refuge  with  her  mother, 
and  the  party  drove  away. 

Tom  Mills  had  insisted  on  giving  them  a  second 
breakfast  at  his  house,  but  there  was  only  time  to 
reach  the  station  in  good  season  for  the  train. 
Jennie  and  Louise,  who  were  waiting  at  home,  saw 


THE    ODD  PRELIMINARY. 


123 


the  carriage  wallow  out  of  the  by-road  and  turn 
east  on  the  turnpike,  and,  somewhat  disappointed, 
hastened  their  own  preparations  for  departure. 
Neal  drove  the  Mills  carriage  on  the  sweep,  and 
they  embraced  Aunt  Sally  in  farewell.  The  old 
lady  looked  sadly  through  her  glasses  at  such  a 
wedding-day,  but  she  did  not  neglect,  at  the  last 
moment,  to  tuck  two  or  three  Banners  of  Light 
into  the  girls'  lunch-basket. 

Both  carriages  arrived  at  the  station  in  a  pour 
from  the  trailing  skies.  There  was  no  awkward 
waiting  about,  for  the  train  came  just  as  the  party 
got  their  tickets  and  checks  ready. 

Tom  stood  on  the  platform  under  an  umbrella 
after  he  had  helped  the  girls  embark  and  taken 
charge  of  Craque-o'-Doom's  horse  and  carriage, 
which  the  driver  was  to  bring  with  him  in  a  car 
chartered  for  that  purpose,  attached  to  a  train 
which  followed  this  one. 

They  were  all  seated  in  the  parlor-car.  The 
dwarf  waved  his  hand  as  he  glided  past,  and  Tom 
stood  looking  after  him,  saying  aloud,  "  Poor, 
poor,  poor  fellow !" 


!  24  CRAQUE-  W-DOOM. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  BUT  AFTERWARD." 

IT  was  ten  o'clock  on  the  next  night  but  one 
when  Rhoda  Jones  led  her  charge  to  their  joint 
sleeping-room  in  a  hotel.  They  had  been  travel- 
ling a  day  and  a  night.  Louise  Latta  and  Jennie 
Mills  left  the  party  at  a  certain  junction  to  take 
their  own  road  homeward,  which  was  very  short. 
They  escaped  the  all-night  smothering  in  poorly- 
ventilated  berths,  though  they  breathed  a  couple 
of  sighs  in  losing  sight  of  Rhoda  and  Tamsin  and 
the  dwarf  and  the  parlor-car. 

Tamsin  paused  in  front  of  the  open  fire, — a  very 
special  apartment  had  been  prepared  for  them, — 
but  Rhoda  moved  briskly  around,  taking  off  her 
wraps  and  opening  her  travelling-bags.  She  got 
out  two  dressing-sacks  covered  with  little  tabs  of 
ribbon  and  lace,  and,  having  made  herself  as  cosey 
as  possible,  took  the  silent  girl  in  hand.  "  You're 
fearfully  tired,"  said  Rhoda. 

Tamsin  looked  dazed. 

"  Now  shake  yourself  a  little,  and  come  here  to 
this  wash-stand  and  get  a  few  of  the  cinders  out  of 
your  ears,  and  put  on  this  sack.  You  don't  know 


"BUT  AFTERWARD." 


125 


how  it  will  freshen  you  up.  The  private  supper 
Mr.  Sutton  ordered  will  be  served  in  our  parlor 
pretty  soon." 

"  I  ain't  hungry,"  murmured  Tamsin. 

"  Aren't  you  ?  I  am, — ferociously."  Rhoda 
was  unwrapping  and  doing  her  up  in  the  dressing- 
sack  while  she  talked.  It  was  a  cream-colored 
fabric,  and  instantly  improved  on  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  the  poor  bride's  scarlet  waist. 

"Tamsin,"  said  Miss  Jones  positively,  "you're 
going  to  make  a  striking  woman.  I  never  saw 
any  one  change  with  clothes  as  you  do.  Oh, 
shan't  we  have  you  looking  delightful !  You  can 
have  things  a  little  bit  nicer  than  most  school- 
girls, on  account  of  your  position,  and  in  a  little 
while  you  will  learn  to  demand  this  or  that  as  your 
irreversible  right.  How  adaptable  human  beings 
are  !  Does  this  roar  and  tumult  confuse  you  ?" 

"  I  think  it  does,  some." 

"  Well,  you'll  get  over  that,  and  love  a  city  as 
much  as  I  do." 

"  I  think  I  should  like  it." 

"  Certainly.  We'll  take  a  carriage  and  shop  for 
dear  life  for  you  all  this  week." 

The  private  supper  was  served  up  very  soon. 
Craque-o'-Doom  was  so  good  a  traveller  that  his 
short  bridal  trip  had  produced  little  effect  on  him. 
He  was  merry  with  Rhoda.  Tamsin  sat  straight 
and  frightened  in  her  chair,  picking  up  bits  of 
u* 


1 26  CRAQUE-  ff -DOOM. 

strange  sumptuous  food  as  if  she  could  not  hazard 
swallowing.  The  dwarf  watched  her  with  quick 
sweeping  looks. 

"  She  is  very  tired,"  said  Rhoda.  "  All  this  ex- 
perience is  so  strange  to  her." 

"  You  must  both  sleep  late  in  the  morning,"  he 
replied.  "  My  man  will  arrive  with  the  carriage 
some  time  to-night :  he  had  a  telegram  ready  for 
me  here.  The  carriage  will  be  at  your  disposal 
as  soon  as  you  want  it." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Miss  Jones  in  ecstasy,  "  I  am 
more  than  compensated  for  having  to  be  content 
with  a  slim  outfit  when  /  get  married. — Tamsin, 
the  next  time  you  do  your  spring  shopping  you 
will  snub  my  memory,  for  I  am  going  to  be  such 
a  despot !" 

The  dwarf  bade  them  good-night  when  they 
rose  to  go  back  to  their  room.  He  got  down 
from  his  chair  and  bowed  to  Rhoda.  Then  he 
took  Tamsin's  hand  and  kissed  it.  She  stood  like 
a  statue.  Rhoda  saw  the  wistful,  dog-like  loyalty 
of  his  eyes  as  he  lifted  them  to  the  slim-figured 
girl,  but  she  did  not  observe  any  tremor  run 
through  that  figure.  "  Is  there  anything — "  he 
inquired,  hesitating  to  finish  the  sentence.  "  Are 
you  feeling  well,  my  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  low  voice. 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,"  he  persisted. 

Rhoda  withdrew  and  closed  the  door  after  her. 


'£t/T  AFTERWARD? 


127 


The  dwarf  drew  his  wife  toward  a  chair.  She 
sat  down  trembling,  with  one  hand  locked  tight 
over  the  other.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor; 
a  full  tear  slid  from  each  and  coursed  over  her 
face. 

"  My  little  one,"  said  the  man,  with  the  anguish 
of  a  mother  in  his  voice,  "  are  you  wretched  ?  Oh, 
I  cannot  bear  that !  I  will  go  out  of  the  hotel  to 
some  other  place.  You  regret  it,  don't  you  ?"  He 
spoke  this  with  a  downward  affirmative  accent. 

"  No,"  said  Tamsin,  hurriedly.  She  managed 
to  raise  her  swimming  eyes  and  encounter  his. 
"  It's  Tillie." 

With  a  cautious  and  delicate  gesture  he  took  up 
her  right  hand  and  began  to  smooth  and  pat  it : 
"  Are  you  afraid  she  is  ill  ?  You  want  your  sister, 
poor  child !" 

"  It's  strange  being  so  far  from  Tillie,"  she  mur- 
mured, making  her  muscles  tense  in  her  efforts  to 
regain  composure. 

"  If  I  could  bring  her  to  you  this  instant  you 
should  have  her.  Don't  hate  me  for  making  you 
so  lonely,  will  you  ?" 

Tamsin  looked  down  at  the  light-expanded  face. 
Then  her  eyes  sought  the  floor,  and  the  flush 
under  her  skin  appeared  for  an  instant.  She  be- 
came quiet,  and  Craque-o'-Doom  scarcely  noticed 
that  she  made  no  reply  to  his  appeal.  "  I'll  send 
a  telegram  to  Captain  Mills,"  he  proposed,  "  be- 


128  CRAQUE-<y-DOOM. 

fore  I  go  to  bed,  and  early  to-morrow  you  can 
have  news  direct  from  Tillie.  You  go  to  bed  and 
sleep  soundly.  Trust  me  to  look  after  your  happi- 
ness a  little." 

He  led  her  to  her  room-door,  and  put  her  inside 
with  another  "  good-night."  It  was  she  who  was 
protected  and  led,  though  she  towered  above  him  so. 

Rhoda  had  already  sat  down  to  toast  her  slip- 
pers: she  motioned  Tamsin  to  draw  to  the  hearth. 
Tamsin  sat  down.  So  wide  was  the  gap  between 
her  present  and  past  life  that  it  did  not  seem 
strange  to  be  sitting  on  terms  of  perfect  equality 
with  a  woman  who  but  a  short  time  ago  had 
seemed  so  far  above  her. 

"  That  man  is  a  gentleman,  if  there  ever  was  one 
on  this  earth !"  exclaimed  Rhoda.  "  Tamsin, 
you're  the  luckiest  girl  I  ever  saw ;  and  the  world 
has  been  perused  by  me  considerably,  my  dear.  I 
know  it  has  hard,  hideous,  inhuman  aspects  which 
no  amount  of  philosophy  can  gloss  over.  It  very 
seldom  turns  out  that  Fortune  is  so  kind  to  those 
thrown  completely  on  her  mercy.  Mr.  Sutton 
knows  more  than  you  or  I  can  ever  grasp ;  yet  see 
how  modest  he  is.  I  do  hope  you'll  make  him 
happy." 

Tamsin  sat  with  her  hands  locked. 

"  Of  course  your  first  duty  is  to  make  the  very 
most  and  best  of  your  school  advantages ;  which 
I  know  you'll  do.  And  I  want  to  give  you  a  hint. 


AFTERWARD? 


I29 


You're  so  very  quiet  there'll  be  plenty  of  girls  who 
will  try  to  run  over  you :  don't  you  allow  it  first 
or  last.  Assert  yourself.  With  so  many  blessings, 
all  you  have  to  do  is  to  hold  your  own.  But  at 
the  same  time,  Tamsin,  if  you  would  try  to  make 
yourself  popular,  you  know, — friendly  among  the 
girls, — you'll  get  along  much  better,  and  it  will  be 
pleasanter  for  you  than  if  you  are  too  reserved. 
Well,  I  didn't  intend  to  give  you  a  lecture.  The 
position  of  duenna  seems  naturally  to  fit  me." 
Rhoda  laughed  and  shifted  her  feet.  "  When  / 
started  to  boarding-school  I  was  a  skinny,  shabby 
orphan  ;  my  dresses  were  calico  or  cheap  delaine ; 
these  abundant  locks  were  shingled  close  to  my 
skull.  I  must  have  looked  like  a  resolute  death's- 
head  or  a  knowledge-smitten  scarecrow.  I  taught 
some  of  the  primary  fry  and  let  it  go  on  my  own 
tuition :  this  contributed  to  age  me.  When  spring 
and  commencement  fever  came,  my  agony  was 
dreadful.  Ah  !  the  poor  little  short  stories  I  wrote  ' 
at  dead  of  night  by  a  smoky  lamp  while  my  room- 
mate snored,  the  heart-beats  with  which  I  sent 
them  off"  in  hopes  of  raising  cash  for  a  cheap 
spring  outfit,  the  despair  with  which  I  received 
half  or  two-thirds  of  them  back  and  saw  my  out- 
fit dwindle  to  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  hat !"  Rhoda 
unloosened  her  hair  and  pulled  it  down  around 
her  half  exultantly.  "  Slowly,  slowly  I  had  to 
conquer  all  these  things.  Even  youth  and  passa- 


CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

ble  good  looks  never  came  to  me  until  I  was  more 
than  twenty-five.  Who  was  there  except  mysell 
to  have  a  vital  interest  in  my  success  or  failure? 
Nobody.  That  skinny  waif  might  have  died  and 
only  a  few  kind  strangers  would  have  moistened 
her  with  a  tear.  I  think  it  has  made  me  very  prac- 
tical :  I  used  to  be  no  end  of  sentimental.  But  my 
Will  has  grown  so  it  has  to  be  spelled  with  a  cap- 
ital W,  and  I  have  a  confidence  in  myself  which 
must  seem  dreadful  to  you.  The  world  is  all  be- 
fore me  now.  At  an  age  when  most  women 
are  buried  in  family  cares  I  shall  go  sailing  into 
broader  life  a  princess  ;  the  way  will  expand, — ex- 
pand,— expand.  But  you,  Tamsin, — see  how  much 
happier  is  your  lot.  In  the  dawn  of  your  girlhood, 
just  as  you  have  begun  to  feel  the  edge  of  circum- 
stance and  necessity,  here  comes  a  kind  and  pow- 
erful guardian,  who  will  lift  you  over  everything 
which  hurt  and  hardened  me,  who  will  be  sunshine 
and  rain,  earth  and  air,  to  bring  you  into  blossom  ; 
and  he  asks  nothing  but  the  privilege  of  taking 
care  of  you." 

Tamsin    got    up  and  walked  across  the  room. 
Rhoda  turned  to  look  after  her  :     "  Am  I  worry 
ing  you,  my  dear?     We  must  go  to  bed." 

"  I  heard  you  talking,"  said  Tamsin,  wheeling 
and  coming  back,  "  the  first  evening  at  Mills's." 
She  stretched  her  arms  straight  down  before  her 
with  the  fingers  locked.  Her  face  had  an  unusual 


"BUT  AFTERWARD."  j^l 

pallor  which  seemed  the  culmination  of  a  paleness 
of  several  days'  growth. 

"  The  first  evening?"  repeated  Rhoda,  puzzled. 
"What  was  I  saying?  Some  nonsense  to  the 
girls,  probably." 

"  It  was  to  them, — about  getting  married." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Rhoda,  with  a  sensation  like  a  sting, 
though  that  puzzled  her  also.  "  Did  I  say  any- 
thing which  stayed  in  your  mind  afterward,  Tam- 
sin?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it  wasn't  very  silly,  whatever  it  was.  I 
will  uphold  my  own  tenets." 

"  I  thought  at  first — "  pursued  Tamsin,  hesitat- 
ing. Then  she  took  another  tack  :  "  It  was  about 
money." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  remember.     Where  were  you  ?" 

"  In  the  other  room.  And  I  sort  of  made  up 
my  mind.  But  afterward — -"  She  broke  off  there, 
as  if  there  were  no  open  communication  between 
herself  and  Rhoda  or  what  she  had  begun  to  say 
would  not  bear  telling. 

"  Well,  what  afterward  ?  Upon  my  word !  is 
that  you  sobbing  ?"  Rhoda  sprang  up  and  ran  to 
her  as  she  turned  her  back.  "  Tamsin,  this  will 
never  do.  You  must  get  into  bed  this  moment. 
Poor  girl !  you  are  worn  out  with  excitement  and 
travel.  In  the  morning  it  will  be  very  different 
with  you." 


CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 


CHAPTER    XV. 
"ARE  YOU  HAPPIER  NOW?" 

IN  the  morning  it  was  very  different  with  her. 
The  wondrous  advantages  of  her  position  began  to 
unfold  themselves  to  Tamsin.  In  the  first  place, 
with  the  very  late  breakfast  came  in  a  telegram 
from  Captain  Mills,  stating  that  Tillie  was  evi- 
dently in  better  health  than  usual :  she  was  at  the 
Hill-house,  while  Tom  telegraphed,  showing  with 
satisfaction  a  fine  large  doll  Tamsin  had  left  to 
console  her. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  leave  her  any  doll !"  murmured 
Tamsin  to  Rhoda.  She  was  beaming  with  a  new 
sense  of  power  and  conquest  over  time  and  space. 

"  Don't  you  see  he  did  it  ?"  exclaimed  Rhoda 
between  her  sips  of  coffee.  "  He  got  the  biggest 
wax  baby  Barnet  afforded,  and  had  me  send  it  to 
your  mother  in  your  name.  I  do  adore  considera- 
tion in  little  things :  it's  much  likelier  to  produce 
happiness  than  this  everlasting  silly  cooing,  '  Do 
you  love  me  better  than  anybody  else  ?'  Give  me 
the  man  who  will  look  after  my  comfort  and  heart's 
ease.  Instead  of  talking  vapor,  people  about  to 
marry  ought  to  attend  to  substance,  and  ask  sen- 


"ARE    YOU  HAPPIER  NOW?" 


133 


sibly,  'Are  you  certain  you  can  always  support  me 
in  comfort?'  and,  '  Do  you  require  as  much  society 
as  I  do  ?' — '  What  are  your  views  about  a  wife's 
regular  allowance  ?' — '  Is  your  temper  surly  or 
quick  ?' — '  What  do  you  like  to  eat  ?'  and,  '  How 
many  poor  relations  have  you  that  will  expect 
assistance?'  A  fair  understanding  on  all  such 
points  will  give  the  firmest  of  foundations  for 
mutual  good  will." 

Tamsin  heard  with  a  slight  tinge  under  the  skin, 
and  Rhoda  ceased  suddenly,  reflecting  that  the 
clause  about  poor  relations  was  rather  ill-timed. 
She  was  surprised  that  she  did  not  get  on  to 
greater  intimacy  with  Tamsin.  Docile  as  the  girl 
appeared,  she  was  insulated  behind  a  barrier  which 
Rhoda  could  not  pierce. 

When  they  dressed  for  their  shopping-tour, 
Tamsin  seemed  passively  grateful  for  the  little  ex- 
tra touches  Rhoda  bestowed  upon  her,  but  her  reti- 
cence never  quite  disappeared.  Before  the  day 
was  over,  however,  an  unusual  exhilaration  grew 
in  her. 

"  Now,  this  is  New  York,"  said  Rhoda,  as  their 
coupe  turned  away  from  the  hotel.  "  Isn't  it  im- 
mense ?  The  roar  and  glory  always  raise  me  to 
the  seventh  heaven.  You'll  have  to  find  it  all 
out  by  degrees.  As  you're  to  go  to  school  and 
have  your  future  home  in  and  about  the  city,  I 
shan't  waste  my  breath  describing  things  to  you 


134  CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 

that  you'll  soon  know  as  well  as  I  do.  At  pres- 
ent our  interests  lie  in  the  direction  of  shopping; 
and  we  can  get  anything  under  the  sun  in  New 
York,  and  have  I  dare  not  say  how  many  hun- 
dred dollars  in  this  pocket  to  do  it  with.  Oh, 
shan't  we  be  bowed  to  and  worshipped  to-day  ? 
Won't  the  clerks  run  out  with  bundles  to  our 
carriage  and  hold  the  door  open  ? — the  very 
wretches  who  have  lorded  it  over  me  when  I 
meekly  purchased  of  them  a  few  scant  yards  of 
cashmere." 

As  Rhoda  had  to  buy  material  for  her  own  out- 
fit as  well  as  Tamsin's,  the  task  occupied  them  full 
a  week.  During  this  time,  at  the  dwari's  urgent 
request,  Miss  Jones  stayed  at  the  hotel  as  one  of 
his  party,  to  be  Tamsin's  companion,  instead  of 
returning  to  her  boarding-house.  Tamsin  was 
gloved,  booted,  slippered  ;  women  were  constantly 
bringing  her  things  to  try  on ;  she  was  driving  o'ut 
to  be  fitted  ;  and  presently,  as  if  by  magic,  she 
found  herself  in  a  dull  bronze  suit  of  silk  so  rich 
and  soft  the  mere  touch  of  it  delighted  her,  with 
nothing  to  relieve  the  shade  in  hat,  gloves,  or  wrap 
except  a  bunch  of  red  roses  close  by  her  neck. 
She  saw  herself  in  one  of  the  many  mirrors  with 
which  the  hotel  increased  and  reflected  its  mag- 
nificence. Her  black  eyes  scintillated  in  a  face 
which  was  slowly  to  lose  the  dulness  of  its  pallor 
and  grow  transparent.  Hot  baths,  abundant  food, 


"ARE    YOU  II APPIER   NOW?"  ^5 

and  exhilaration  were  changing  her,  and  she  recog- 
nized it  when  she  saw  herself  dressed. 

Craque-o'-Doom  drove  with  the  girls,  after  the 
first  fury  of  their  shopping  was  over,  and  showed 
Tamsin  wonders  which  she  had  never  dreamed  of 
in  her  previous  life.  Sometimes  her  mind  reeled 
dizzily, — had  she  ever  been  that  miserable  girl  in 
Barnet? — and  again,  in  the  midst  of  a  keen  de- 
light, a  pang  struck  through  her  breast  that  she 
should  enjoy  so  much  while  Tillie  lived  like  a  clod. 
She  saw  one  play  :  this  was  a  few  evenings  before 
she  entered  school  and  began  the  serious  business 
of  improvement.  It  was  the  dwarf's  good  fortune 
to  be  able  to  present  first  to  her  imagination  Neil- 
son's  matchless  Juliet.  They  took  a  box.  Craque- 
o'-Doom  had  never  been  able  to  meet  the  gaze  of 
a  large  assembly  of  people  in  the  body  of  the  thea- 
tre. He  sat  behind  the  two  girls,  smiling  to  him- 
self at  Tamsin's  quiet  excitement.  She  had  already 
a  well-bred  air.  Rhoda  had  initiated  her  into  some 
style  of  hair-dressing  which  made  her  head  a 
pretty  study.  She  looked  back  occasionally  at 
Craque-o'-Doom,  parting  her  lips  with  a  smile  at 
once  timid  and  grateful. 

"  Are  you  a  little  happier  now  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Tamsin.  She  turned  immedi- 
ately to  watch  the  great  curtain  which  still  shut 
away  from  her  an  unknown  world.  The  house 
was  crowded;  the  gas-lights  were  multiplied  by 


CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 

mirrors  and  prisms;  the  perfume  from  her  own 
drapery  filled  her  with  dreamy  delight.  How 
many  beautiful  and  grand  people  there  were  in  the 
world !  Rhoda  saw  acquaintances  to  whom  she 
bowed.  A  little  bell  rang ;  the  orchestra,  almost 
at  her  feet,  startled  her  with  a  blare  of  music. 
What  it  was,  and  why  they  played  it,  she  did  not 
know,  but  it  stormed  her  heart :  she  trembled  with 
positive  rapture.  Then  the  great  curtain  began  to 
rise.  She  watched  that  miracle  until  voices  re- 
called her  eyes,  and,  behold !  on  the  stage  there 
were  two  women, — a  lady  and  her  servant, — 
dressed  in  some  queer  fashion  which  made  both 
stately.  And  in  a  short  time  there  came  running 
in  one  of  the  loveliest  women  this  earth  has  ever 
borne,  whose  crimson  mouth  seemed  strangely 
made  of  ripples  or  scallops.  The  people  made 
thunder  with  their  hands,  for  this  was  Neilson. 
Tamsin  now  seemed  to  live  in  the  body  of  this 
fair  woman.  She  loved  with  her,  despaired  with 
her,  hung  over  the  morning  balcony  after  her  de- 
parting husband  with  her,  and  died  and  was  laid  in 
the  Capulets'  tomb.  She  did  not  know  it  was  over, 
and  believed  there  must  be  a  better  ending,  when 
Craque-o'-Doom  was  reaching  to  fold  her  wraps 
around  her.  She  turned  her  swimming  eyes  to  his. 
"  My  dear !"  he  whispered.  The  crowd  in  the 
theatre  was  surging  out,  and  one  or  two  lights 
were  shut  off  "  We  will  read  the  play  together 


"ARE    YOU  HAPPIER  NOW?" 


137 


some  time,"  he  added  more  quietly.  "  Has  it 
made  you  feel  unhappy  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Tamsin,  "  not  that.  I'm  glad  I  saw 
it."  She  was  not  excited  to  chatter  as  they  drove 
back  to  the  hotel ;  she  did  not  say  it  was  splendid 
or  perfectly  gorgeous :  Tamsin  always  had  more 
thoughts  than  words. 

Rhoda  was  heartily  enthusiastic  over  the  Juliet, 
but  she  had  a  great  many  absurd  things  to  say 
about  Capulet's  ball  and  the  red-and-green  ladies 
who  danced  the  minuet  in  back  ranks :  "  The  poor 
wretches  always  get  themselves  up  in  segments 
of  glaring  colors ;  at  the  very  best  they  look  like 
figures  heaped  out  of  strawberry,  pistache,  and 
lemon  ice-creams.  Their  trains  don't  train  right; 
and  how  insolent  the  star's  perfection  seems,  throw- 
ing their  poor  defects  into  such  prominence !  A 
real  poor  stock  actress  or  actor  must  have  the  sad- 
dest life  on  earth, — I  mean  one  without  any  talent 
for  rising.  Imagine  that  tawdry  flock  going  off 
the  stage  into  the  wings :  they  pick  up  their  sorry 
trains ;  no  maid  waits  for  them ;  that  thunder  of 
applause  is  for  the  star.  The  public  must  seem  a 
many-headed  monster ;  and  the  wind  is  so  cold  in 
the  wings,  the  tackle  and  pulleys  overhead  so 
ghastly !" 

"  But,  on  the  other  hand,  look  at  the  triumph 
of  such  a  Juliet,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom  :  "  she  is 
the  actual  moist  flame  that  Shakespeare  presents 
12* 


CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

to  our  imagination.  We  do  not  want  to  see  her 
in  any  other  shape." 

"That's  just  it:  her  one  triumph  is  the  defeat 
of  a  thousand  others.  And  the  world  doesn't  care 
a  straw  for  people  who  fail  or  make  a  sorry  fight 
of  it,  in  any  place.  Come  to  that,  we're  all  down- 
right savages  at  heart :  whoever  can  get  ahead  of 
us  becomes  our  idol  and  chief;  whoever  happens 
to  fall  underfoot  we  do  not  scruple  to  tramp  on. 
If  he  doesn't  like  it,  he  hasn't  any  business  to 
stay  there." 

"  Fortunately,  you  are  not  as  fierce  as  your 
philosophy,  Miss  Rhoda." 

"  It  isn't  my  philosophy ;  it's  my  observation : 
facts  are  facts." 

Tamsin  looked  out  of  the  window  as  their  car- 
riage moved  between  two  rows  of  gigantic  build- 
ings. She  was  in  a  luxurious  position :  what 
Rhoda  Jones  said  sounded  like  a  painful  truth 
which  she  had  known  in  some  former  world. 

During  all  this  time  that  Tamsin  was  being  pre- 
pared for  school,  the  school  was  being  selected 
and  prepared  for  her.  To  the  lady-principal  Tarn- 
sin's  position  and  characteristics  were  explained. 
It  was  considered  best  by  all  parties  that  she 
should  enter  school  as  Tamsin  Sutton,  a  young 
girl  under  the  care  of  a  guardian,  since  she  was 
nothing  more,  and  it  was  neither  necessary  nor 


"ARE    YOU  HAPPIER   NOW? 


139 


advisable  to  explain  her  true  relation  to  Mr.  Sutton 
to  a  couple  of  hundred  young  ladies  from  all  parts 
of  the  country.  Tamsin  herself  was  not  likely  to 
make  confidences. 

"  Unless  she  falls  desperately  in  love  with  some 
class-mate,"  said  Rhoda  to  Craque-o'-Doom,  "  her 
reserve  will  be  pierced  by  nobody.  I  think  she 
likes  me  very  much ;  still,  she  has  never  poured 
any  confidences  into  my  ear." 

The  dwarf  paled  a  very  little :  "  But  there  is  no 
danger  of  that  sort  of  thing.  The  pupils  are  all 
young  ladies." 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  what  I  mean,  of  course.  Girls 
sometimes  have  desperate  sentiments  for  each 
other,  and  bill  and  coo,  and  die  of  jealousy,  and 
go  through  all  the  nonsense.  I  fell  in  love  with 
the  gymnastic  teacher  when  I  was  at  boarding- 
school.  She  was  the.homeliest  and  leanest  French- 
woman you  ever  saw,  and,  as  I  was  very  miserable 
anyhow,  I  contrived  to  howl  myself  into  quite  a 
frenzy  whenever  I  fell  the  least  under  her  dis- 
pleasure. It's  in  many  young  girls  to  take  such 
morbid  fancies ;  and  there's  really  no  great  harm 
about  it.  It's  only  their  modest,  roundabout  way 
of  worshipping  man ;  they  are  reprehended  for 
thinking  about  him  while  at  school,  so  they  adore 
his  reflected  and  refined  image." 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  like  it  in  this  child's 
case,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom. 


CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

"  She  mayn't  be  of  the  doting  sort  at  all.  So.ne- 
times  I  think  she  is  a  person  who  will  have  only 
one  or  two  strong  affections  in  her  life.  But  she's 
so  young  yet :  you  can't  tell  what  she  will  be." 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

FURTHER   ACQUAINTANCE. 

THE  day  before  Tamsin  entered  school,  Craque- 
o'-Doom  drove  her  out  in  the  afternoon  with  no 
companion  besides  himself.  He  sat  opposite  to 
her  in  the  coupe,  glancing  over  her  figure  occa- 
sionally. She  was  his  study.  His  expressive 
eyes  brightened  or  gloomed  when  he  fixed  them 
on  her.  Wherever  he  was  seated  now,  the  Persian 
drapery  trailed  from  his  lap  :  once  he  had  seen 
her  look  at  his  feet. 

Tamsin  did  not  know  where  they  were  going. 
Each  day  of  her  life  was  now  a  new  pleasure. 
She  was  about  to  enjoy  something,  and  leaned 
back  in  quiet  anticipation. 

"  Would  you  like  to  pick  up  a  few  little  things 
for  Tillie  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  For  Tillie  ?"  Radiance  appeared  to  stream 
from  her  face  and  fall  across  his  eyes.  "  I  wrote 


FURTHER   ACQUAINTANCE.  \^\ 

her  a  letter,"  she  continued  in  a  tremulous,  eager 
way  which  was  so  confiding  that  the  dwarfs  heart 
swelled  within  him  ;  "  I  told  her  how  I  was  getting 
along.  She  would  like  it  so  much." 

"  I  wish  she  could  be  with  you.  But  the  next 
best  thing  is  to  send  her  something. — Here !" 
Craque-o'-Doom  signalled  to  his  man  to  stop. — 
"  I  believe  this  is  a  place  where  you  can  get  made- 
up  knick-knacks  for  little  girls.  Are  you  afraid  to 
go  in  alone  and  buy?"  He  took  a  porte-monnaie 
from  his  breast-pocket  and  transferred  it  to  her 
hand. 

No;  Tamsin  had  grown  bold  during  her  shop- 
ping experience.  She  had  been  treated  obse- 
quiously :  what  was  there  to  be  afraid  of?  Craque- 
o'-Doom  waited  for  her  in  the  carriage.  She 
appreciated  silently  his  kindness  in  letting  her 
shop  unassisted  for  Tillie.  She  knew  what  to 
buy.  Presently  the  packages  came  pouring  out, 
large  and  small,  round  and  square.  In  due  time 
came  Tamsin  herself,  in  a  still,  white  transport 
of  joy. 

"  Have  you  got  everything  you  want  here  ?"  in- 
quired Craque-o'-Doom. 

"  Yes."  As  they  drove  on  she  looked  up  at  him 
and  broke  the  paper  at  the  corner  of  one  package. 
"  It's  a  blue  wool  sack  :  it  ties  with  a  ribbon  under 
her  chin.  I  used  to  want  one  for  her :  she  takes 
cold  so  easy." 


I42  CRAQUE-CP-DOOM. 

Craque-o'-Doom  admired  the  sack,  and  she  went 
on  unfolding  every  purchase,  until  the  merchan- 
dise was  piled  all  around  them.  There  were  dresses 
of  various  kinds,  undergarments,  hosier)',  handker- 
chiefs, and  even  collarettes. 

"  Tillie  would  look  nice,"  she  continued,  in  an 
eager  maternal  tone,  "  if  she  was  dressed  like  the 
little  girls  at  the  hotel." 

"  Of  course  she  would,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom. 
"  She  looks  nice  anyhow." 

Tamsin  threw  her  eyes  up  at  him  with  an  abso- 
lute sparkling ;  her  lips  trembled.  "  You  are  good 
to  me,"  she  said  in  a  sort  of  explosive  burst. 

"  Am  I  good  to  you  ?  I  want  to  be, — God 
knows  I  do!  Tamsin,  will  you  promise  me  one 
thing?  Always  tell  me  what  is  in  your  mind. 
Don't  keep  any  secret  from  me,  will  you,  my 
child  ?" 

She  started,  the  color  appearing  under  her  skin, 
but  it  died  away,  and  she  replied  steadily,  "  No, 
sir ;  I  will  tell  you  everything." 

Craque-o'-Doom  drew  a  long  free  breath.  He 
looked  over  the  confusion  of  dry-goods  and  paper. 
"  People  may  think  we  are  peddling,"  said  he ; 
"  but  no  matter.  Now,  don't  you  want  shoes,  and 
gloves,  and  millinery,  and  such  things  ?  And  then 
a  fancy  toy  or  two  ?" 

"  I  told  her  once,"  pursued  Tamsin  in  a  confiden- 
tial strain  which  made  his  heart  yearn  over  her,  as 


FURTHER   ACQUAINTANCE.  143 

she  smiled  and  refolded  the  blue  sack,  "  that  when 
I  got  rich  I'd  give  her  fine  shoes  and  everything 
that  heart  could  wish  ;  but  I  never  thought  then — 
And  a  'cordion !  I  told  her  I'd  get  her  a  'cor- 
dion." 

The  dwarf  leaned  against  his  cushion  as  if  sud- 
denly tired.  Still,  not  one  whit  of  interest  de- 
parted from  his  smile.  "  She  must  have  them,"  he 
said.  "But  we  shall  have  to  take  a  much  longer 
drive  to  find  the  accordion.  We  can  have  a  box 
packed  and  started  by  express  to  Tillie  this  very 
evening." 

Again  the  carriage  was  stopped,  and  again  Tarn- 
sin  ran  across  the  sidewalk  to  make  purchases. 
There  was  a  girlish  alertness  and  spring  in  her 
gait  which  Craque-o'-Doom  did  not  fail  to  mark, 
yet  he  put  one  hand  over  his  eyes  and  crouched 
back  as  if  he  were  hurt.  " '  I  told  her  when  I  got 
rich/  "  he  repeated.  "  What's  going  to  become  of 
me  if  she  doesn't  grow  to  like  me  ?  I  expect  too 
much." 

Tamsin  came  out,  followed  by  some  delightful 
shoes.  There  was  a  high-laced  pair  for  every  day, 
and  kid  button  boots  for  Sunday;  also  some  soft 
slippers, — "  for  when  she  don't  feel  like  going  out- 
doors,"said  Tamsin, — and  substantial  rubber  boots: 
"  I  never  saw  such  things  before  ;  but  the  man  said 
they  would  keep  her  from  all  damp,  and  she  will 
run  out  in  wet  weather." 


CRAQUE-  a -DOOM. 

"  Would  you  like  to  get  something  for  your 
mother  and  father?"  inquired  the  dwarf.  "  While 
we  are  about  it,  we  can  pick  up  something  for 
them." 

Tamsin  considered  ;  her  face  grew  heated.  She 
cast  a  piteous  look  at  him,  and  said,  as  if  con- 
strained to  speak  so  by  her  promise  of  confiding 
everything  to  him,  "  Maybe  we  better,  or  they 
might  take  Tillie's  things  from  her." 

"They  wouldn't  do  that?" 

Tamsin  turned  her  head  impressively  from  side 
to  side.  "  But  you've  give  me  so  much,"  she 
said. 

"  Very  little,  my  dear.  And,  come  to  think  of 
it,  there  is  something  I  have  neglected  to  give  you, 
and  which  we  must  drive  to  Tiffany's  for  this  very 
afternoon.  Miss  Rhoda  says  a  school-girl  should 
not  have  a  great  deal  of  jewelry ;  but  you  were 
married  without  a  ring,  and  I  have  not  given  you 
one  yet." 

He  alighted  from  the  carriage  when  they  reached 
the  gorgeous  shop,  and  made  his  way  with  Tam- 
sin between  passers-by.  When  people  turned  to 
stare  at  him  and  direct  each  other's  attention  as  to 
a  rare  spider  or  a  painted  savage  who  could  not 
understand  their  language,  he  looked  at  Tamsin 
with  a  quick,  jealous  sweep  of  the  eye :  the  effect 
on  her  was  not  discernible. 

She  stood  beside  Craque-o'-Doom  when  he  was 


FURTHER   ACQUAINTANCE.  145 

mounted  upon  a  chair,  and  pored  over  the  array 
of  precious  stones  spread  before  them  with  a  sen- 
suous delight  which  he  keenly  noted :  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  the  diamond  threw  its  glamour  over 
her  eyes.  She  took  her  glove  off,  and  he  put  a 
blazing  stone  on  her  finger;  the  red  hand  which 
recently  was  fit  only  for  plunging  into  any  rough 
use  already  showed  a  fairer  surface. 

They  drove  home  about  dusk.  Tamsin  was  in  a 
gale  of  delighted  excitement.  She  could  not  eat 
her  dinner  until  all  her  purchases  were  fondled 
over  again,  the  accordion  especially  commended 
to  Rhoda's  notice,  and  the  whole  boxed  and 
started  on  the  road  to  Tillie. 

"  I  never  saw  Tamsin  in  such  rapture,"  said 
Rhoda. 

"  She  does  seem  happy,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom. 
He  was  sitting  in  a  large  chair,  leaning  his  head 
upon  his  hand.  His  eyes  were  of  a  paler  gray 
than  usual,  and  looked  bleached  like  ashes. 

"  Now  you  be  careful  of  that  magnificent  soli- 
taire," impressed  Rhoda,  shaking  a  finger  at  Tam- 
sin. "  Two  or  three  dozen  girls  will  want  to  try 
it  on  or  wear  it  a  little  while,  or  borrow  it  to 
receive  a  call  in.  I  never  lost  any  solitaires  while 
I  was  at  school,  but  I  can  foresee  the  danger  of 
it.  It's  something  remarkable  for  a  girl  of  your 
age  to  possess." 

Tamsin  held  one  hand  in  the  other  and  looked 
o  k  13 


CRAQUE-0-DOOM. 

at  it ;  her  glance  then  moved  to  the  turquoise  on 
Rhoda's  finger.  Little  as  she  knew  of  precious 
stones,  the  difference  was  apparent  to  her.  Her 
face  filled  with  a  triumph  which  was  really  arro- 
gant. "A  little  while  ago,"  she  said,  punctuating 
her  sentences  with  the  pauses  peculiar  to  herself, 
"  I  hadn't  but  one  old  dress." 

"  Don't!"  exclaimed  the  dwarf,  turning  his  head 
aside. 

Tamsin  started.  She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him 
with  a  glance  which  Rhoda  saw,  but  he  did  not. 


"HE   IS    TALL."  ^7 

CHAPTER    XVII. 
"HE  is  TALL." 

WHEN  Tamsin  disappeared  within  the  walls  of 
her  boarding-school,  Rhoda  went  over  to  Brook- 
lyn, and  was  so  busy  that  she  called  only  once  or 
twice  before  her  marriage.  The  first  time  she 
called,  Tamsin  looked  depressed  and  tired.  On 
the  next  occasion,  however,  she  was  found  in  good 
spirits,  eagerly  interested  in  her  studies.  She  had 
been  promoted  in  her  classes :  she  was  learning 
music  and  French.  "  Isn't  it  strange  the  French 
people  talk  that  all  the  time?"  said  Tamsin. 
"  Mademoiselle  got  very  mad  at  me  because  I 
thought  it  was  funny  they  had  the  Testament 
printed  in  French."  She  was  girlish  and  com- 
municative. A  shell  comb  was  tipped  in  her  hair 
behind  one  ear,  giving  her  a  coquettish  look.  The 
airs  and  blandishments  of  admiring  school-mates 
had  evidently  been  added  to  her  own  manner. 

"  Your  position  is  perfectly  pleasant  and  easy, 
isn't  it?"  demanded  Miss  Jones,  twining  a  lock  of 
hair  on  the  girl's  forehead  with  matronly  touch. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  am  beginning  algebra,  and  I  can't 
get  it  straight  yet.  Everything  is  nice  :  I  feel  like 
I  had  always  been  here." 


CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

"  You  are  improving,  I  can  see.  How  often 
does  Mr.  Sutton  come  ?" 

"  Twice  a  week,  regular." 

"  Regularly,"  amended  Rhoda. 

"  Regularly,"  accepted  Tamsin  without  change 
or  shade.  "  And  then  other  times  he  takes  me 
to  ride.  We  go  all  through  the  Park  on  nice 
days." 

"  Oh,  you  lucky  girl,  to  have  such  life  drop  into 
your  hands,  when  I  had  to  slave  for  so  many 
toughening  years  before  my  deliverer  appeared ! 
But,  Tamsin,  we  expect  to  sail  next  week." 

"  Do  you  ?  And  are  you  going  to  have  a  big 
wedding  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  the  ceremony  will  be  very 
quietly  performed  at  the  house  of  a  distant  relative 
of  mine  in  Buffalo.  Mr.  Burns  lives  in  Buffalo  ;  he 
has  only  time  to  run  up  for  me  before  the  day  set, 
or  I  would  let  you  see  him.  I  sent  an  invitation 
to  Mr.  Sutton,  but  he  declined,  for  you  and  him- 
self both  :  he  didn't  think  it  best  to  take  you  out 
of  school." 

Tamsin  had  looked  half  frightened.  With  a  re- 
assured countenance  she  said,  "  I  don't  want  to 
see  strange  people  yet." 

Rhoda  laughed :  "  I  don't  know  what  ordeal 
could  be  more  trying  than  the  strange  people  of  a 
boarding-school.  But  you  are  used  to  the  girls 
now." 


IS    TALL." 


149 


"  Yes,  now  I  am.  At  first — "  she  paused — "  at 
first  they  whispered  about  .me." 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing.  Did  you  snub  a  few  of 
them,  as  I  recommended  ?" 

"  I  said  something,"  asserted  Tamsin.  She  ex- 
amined Rhoda  as  if  in  doubt  whether  to  lay  the 
communication  at  her  mercy  or  not. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?" 

"  There  were  some  girls,"  ventured  Tamsin, 
"  that  always  watched  out  of  the  windows  when 
he  came  to  take  me  riding,  and  they  would  cough 
and  laugh." 

"  Green  with  envy,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  And  when  he  came  to  call  they  would  go 
through  the  reception-room  with  their  music- 
books,  when  they  didn't  practise  there  at  all." 

"  I  know  the  breed,"  remarked  Rhoda. 

"  They  put  pictures  in  my  books, — pictures 
without —  Pictures  that  hadn't  any  legs." 

Rhoda  curled  her  lip. 

"  They  couldn't  find  out  if  he  was  any  relation : 
so  one  day  before  chapel  services  they  sat  just 
back  of  me  and  sang  under  their  breath, — 

"  '  Here  sits  Miss  Tamsin  Sutton, 
Who  goes  to  ride  with  a  button  !' 

And  I  just  turned  around, "said  Tamsin  sonorously, 

scowling  as  in  past  life  she  had  scowled  at  Captain 

Mills's  high-minded  negro,  "and  looked  square  in 

13* 


CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 

their  faces.  I  said,  '  You  are  the  buttons.  He's 
tall ;  he's  tall  as  the  hills.'  " 

Rhoda  applauded  with  her  palms.  She  drew  in 
a  quick  breath  and  looked  keenly  at  Craque-o'- 
Doom's  champion.  The  young  girl's  face  was 
filled  with  color,  but  she  adjusted  her  hair  with  a 
nervous  motion  and  changed  the  subject.  During 
the  rest  of  the  interview  she  had  an  uneasy  air,  as 
if  this  confidential  burst  had  surprised  and  discon- 
certed herself. 

When  Rhoda  parted  from  her  at  the  door  she 
kissed  the  ripening  olive  cheek  :  "  This  is  the  first 
time  I  ever  kissed  you,  Tamsin." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  And  the  last  time  I  bestow  a  maiden  lady's 
caress  on  you :  on  the  next  occasion  it  will  be  a 
matron's.  Do  you  like  to  be  kissed  ?" 

"  I  used  to  like  to  have  Tillie." 

"  Didn't  you  ever  kiss  Mr.  Sutton  ?" 

The  girl  colored  up  to  the  soft  rings  of  hair 
which  she  was  learning  to  train  over  her  forehead. 
Rhoda  felt  as  if  she  had  outraged  the  delicacy  of 
a  child,  and  went  away  provoked  with  herself. 

On  the  day  Rhoda  sailed,  Craque-o'-Doom  took 
Tamsin  to  the  wharf  to  see  her  off  She  told  them 
a  great  deal  about  her  wedding  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  introduced  Mr.  Burns,  a  portly,  cheerful, 
rather  elderly  gentleman,  who  was  easily  put  out 
of  breath  and  planted  his  hand  on  his  hip  to  pant. 


"//£  /s  TALL:'  ^ 

He  seemed  prepared  for  Craque-o'-Doom,  but 
eyed  him  with  covert  curiosity.  Several  friends 
accompanied  them,  and  a  number  of  Rhoda's  city 
acquaintances  were  there. 

The  mighty  steamship  was  ready  to  part  from 
her  moorings ;  Tamsin  sat  in  her  carriage  shaken 
with  admiring  awe  of  it.  She  got  down  at  the 
last  minute  to  run  to  Rhoda  again,  where  that 
animated  young  lady  was  divided  between  her 
clinging  friends  and  her  hastening  spouse.  She 
gave  her  hand  for  another  last  squeeze  to  Tamsin. 

"  I  never  thanked  you,"  said  Tamsin  without 
preface  or  explanation.  "  I  thank  you  now." 

Mrs.  Burns  had  this  pleasant  assurance  to  carry 
with  her  when  she  was  wiping  some  moist  emotion 
from  her  eyes  as  they  steamed  down  the  bay. 

Her  husband  stood  at  the  rail  beside  her. 
"  Come,  Rhoda,"  said  he,  swelling  his  chest  con- 
solingly. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  doing  anything  but  enjoying  the 
luxurious  sensation  of  having  friends.  There  isn't 
anything  more  delightful  in  this  world  than  part- 
ing with  your  friends  when  you  start  on  a  long 
journey :  it  brings  out  all  their  good  points  ;  they 
open  their  hearts  more  in  a  brief  minute  than  they 
have  done  before  in  years,  and,  no  matter  how 
stupid  you  may  have  thought  them,  their  interest 
in  you  endears  them  to  that  degree  that  you  are 
ready  to  fall  upon  their  bosoms,  but  are  caught 


I  ij  2  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM, 

away  just  in  time  to  preserve  the  situation, — to 
sort  of  crystallize  it,  you  know." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  smiling  applause,  as  he 
always  did  at  her  sayings. 

"  Even  little  Tamsin  expressed  herself  unusually. 
Don't  you  think  she's  rather  pretty  ? — the  girl 
with  black  eyes  and  light  hair  who  spoke  to  me 
last." 

"  Yes.  The  one  you  said  was  married  to  the 
dwarf.  Oh,  yes  !  He's  a  dreadful  figure,  though." 

"  But  he's  wonderful.  If  I  hadn't  seen  him  I 
shouldn't  believe  there  was  such  a  person  alive. 
He  seems  so  knightly  and  upright:  he  is  as  gentle 
as  a  well-bred  woman  ;  yet  I  haven't  any  doubt 
there's  tremendous  passionate  force  in  him." 

"  Yes ;  that's  what  you  told  me  about  him 
before.  It's  a  pity  he's  such  an  unfortunate 
shape." 

"  Now,  see  here,"  said  Rhoda,  making  the  wind 
an  excuse  for  hooking  her  forefinger  through  one 
of  Mr.  Burns's  button-holes  :  "  that  man,  and  that 
girl  he  married  to  educate,  have  exercised  me 
a  great  deal.  I  keep  observing  them,  and  some- 
times I  actually  believe  they  are  in  love  with  each 
other  in  ways  wholly  peculiar  to  themselves." 

Mr.  Burns  humored  the  idea  with  a  laugh. 
"  She  can't  think  much  of  that  little  dwarf,"  he 
said.  "  A  woman  wants  a  man  of  good  appear- 
ance,— portly  physique.  Especially  a  pretty  young 


"HE   IS    TALL" 


153 


woman."  He  looked  at  Rhoda,  and  she  looked  at 
him. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  talk  and  look  that  way, 
everybody  on  board  will  know  we  are  just  mar- 
ried. Scowl  a  little  bit,  do  !  I've  thought  it  was 
foolish  for  brides  to  object  to  appear  as  brides,  but 
it  does  make  one  feel  silly." 

While  Navesink  was  disappearing  from  their 
eyes,  the  dwarf,  who  had  left  Tamsin  at  her  school, 
was  curled  up  behind  his  paper  in  an  alcove  of  his 
hotel.  He  pulled  down  his  moustache  and  gnawed 
at  it.  Some  men  near  him,  unconscious  of  his 
presence,  were  talking  about  him,  and  he  had  no 
choice  but  to  hear  what  they  said  : 

"  That  queer  object  you  saw  come  into  the  ves- 
tibule a  while  ago  ?  Why,  that's  Sutton,  the 
dwarf.  He  has  a  pile  of  money.  He  always 
stops  here,  and  he's  been  in  town  quite  a  while. 
Seems  to  have  picked  up  a  pretty  young  girl 
somewhere  and  married  her,  and  he's  got  her  at 
school  up  town,  and  stays  here  to  hang  around 
her." 

"  Dotes  on  her,  does  he  ?" 

"  I  s'pose  so." 

"  She  can't  dote  on  him  particularly." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that :  he's  very  wealthy." 

Both  men  laughed  as  they  moved  away. 

Craque-o'-Doom  kept  pulling  down  his  mous- 
tache. "  I  am  making  a  fool  of  myself,"  he 


1 5  4  CRA  Q  UE-  ff-DO  OM. 

whispered.  "  If  I  persecute  her  by  '  hanging 
around,'  she'll  grow  to  despise  me.  I'd  better 
go  up  river  to-morrow  and  see  how  things  are 
getting  on  at  home."  He  decided  to  take  the 
afternoon  train, — the  river  was  not  yet  open  to 
navigation, — but  he  had  time  to  see  Tamsin  in 
the  morning. 

She  came  to  the  reception-room  from  a  recita- 
tion. The  dwarf  was  huddled  on  a  sofa,  his  rug 
trailing  to  the  floor.  He  had  not  slept  very  well, 
but  if  Tamsin  noticed  that  he  was  pale  she  did 
not  speak  of  it.  After  she  gave  him  her  hand, 
which  he  kissed,  she  sat  down  on  a  chair  some 
distance  away.  Her  eyes  were  sparkling.  She 
fixed  them  on  the  floor,  and  then  said  steadily, 
"  Comment  vous  portez-vous,  monsieur  ?" 

"  Eh  bien  !  Good  !  And  are  you  getting  on 
to  the  '  carpenter'  and  the  '  bread'  business,  and 
'  the  sister-in-law  of  my  brother,'  and  the  rest  of 
it?" 

Tamsin  passed  over  his  sarcasm.  "  I  got  a 
letter  from  Tillie,"  she  remarked.  "  That's  five. 
She  makes  Mary  write  them." 

"And  how  is  Tillie?" 

"  She's  well.  She  sent  you  her  very  best  re- 
spects, too." 

"  Much  obliged." 

"  She  did.  And  she  likes  the  things  so  much  ! 
She's  written  two  letters  about  the  things." 


"f/K  fs  TALL:'  ^5 

"  Never  mind  the  things.  Do  you  think  so 
much  of  things,  Tamsin  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  and  showed  a  distinct  dimple 
at  one  corner  of  her  mouth.  She  had  been  learn- 
ing to  laugh.  "  Yes,  I  do  love  nice  things.  Why 
don't  you  notice  my  apron  ?  I  made  it  myself. 
All  of  them  are  getting  to  wear  lace  aprons  in  the 
morning.  I  made  it  out  of  some  lace  Miss  Rhoda 
bought  for  me." 

"  Do  you  want  any  pin-money  now, — any  money 
to  spend  for  little  necessaries,  I  mean  ?" 

"  I  have  a  great  lot  yet  that  you  gave  me  when 
I  first  came  here." 

"  You're  not  an  extravagant  child  at  all.  Well, 
when  you  want  anything  you  must  write  me." 

"  What  for  ?    Can't  I  tell  you  when  I  see  you  ?" 

"  I  am  going  home,  up  the  North  River,  this 
afternoon,  and  may  not  see  you  again  for  some 
time." 

Tamsin  twisted  meshes  in  her  lace  apron.  She 
had  certainly  thawed  from  her  former  Indian-like 
stoicism.  "  I  thought  you  would  live  here,"  she 
observed. 

"  No ;  I  have  only  stayed  to  see  you  well  accus- 
tomed to  your  new  life.  You  are  comfortable  here, 
aren't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  will  write  to  me,  and  tell  me  how  you 
get  on,  and  about  your  daily  life,  won't  you  ?" 


1 5  6  CRA  Q  UE-  V-D  O  OM. 

11  I  can't  write — a  real  pretty  letter." 

"  Any  letter  will  be  pretty  to  me.  How  often 
shall  I  write  to  you  ?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  dropped  them  again 
shyly :  "  I  don't  know." 

"  My  child,"  with  a  sting  of  pain  in  his  tone, 
"  don't  you  care  to  hear  from  me  ?" 

Tamsin  started  and  turned  her  face  aside. 
When  she  did  look  at  him,  it  was  with  reproach- 
ful eyes. 

"  Forgive  me !"  exclaimed  the  dwarf.  "  You 
don't  know  how  I  hate  to  leave  you." 

"  What  makes  you  go,  then  ?" 

"  Because  I  ought  to.  Tamsin,  come  here  to 
me,  will  you  ?" 

She  rose  and  walked  slowly  to  his  side. 

"  Will  you  stoop  down  where  I  can  look  in  your 
eyes  ?" 

She  settled  slowly  on  one  knee.  Her  whole 
body  was  in  a  tremor.  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
tilted  her  head  up. 

"  Don't  look  down  at  the  deformed  part  of  me : 
look  in  my  face.  My  little  one,  how  lovely  you 
are  growing  !  How  old  are  you  now  ?" 

"  Seventeen  next  month." 

"  And  I  am  in  my  thirties  !" 

An  unaccountable  silence  fell  between  them. 
He  had  taken  his  hand  away  from  her  head.  He 
now  put  it  reverently  back,  drew  her  a  little  nearer, 


"HE   IS   TALL." 


157 


and  kissed  her  forehead.     With  a  strong    recoil 
Tamsin  sprung  up  and  flew  from  the  room. 

The  dwarf  whitened  even  across  his  lips :  "  My 
God !  And  I  have  grown  to  love  her  with  all  my 
strength  and  life  !" 

The  clock  could  scarcely  have  marked  three 
minutes'  interval  when  Tamsin  came  back  cau- 
tiously, guilty-looking  and  flushed.  But  Craque 
o'-Doom  had  already  gone.  She  could  do  nothing 
but  lock  her  hands  and  stare  at  the  corner  of  the 
sofa  where  he  had  sat. 


1 58  CRAQUE-a  -DOOM. 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 

LETTERS. 

Craque-o'-Doom  to  Tamsin. 

COLD  SPRINGS  ON  HUDSON,  April  12. 

MY  DEAR  CHILD, — Pardon  me  for  frightening 
you  just  as  I  came  away.  I  am  not  very  well 
accustomed  to  women :  they  have  always  seemed 
divine  beings  literally  above  my  level,  except  the 
excellent  Dutchwoman  who,  with  her  son,  daughter, 
and  husband,  keeps  the  machinery  of  my  house 
going. 

You  notice  I  do  not  call  it  home,  though  it  is 
the  dearest  spot  in  the  world,  and  one  made  by 
Nature  so  picturesque  th&»  it  seems  new  and  wonder- 
ful every  day  in  the  year.  There  is  no  use  telling 
you  about  the  Highlands:  you  must  see  them  for 
yourself.  The  whole  length  of  this  river  is  dear  to 
me.  The  homestead  is  a  very  old  place ;  part  of 
it  is  built  of  stone  and  dates  from  the  early  days  of 
New  Amsterdam,  which  was  the  ancient  name  for 
New  York.  This  is  an  inconvenient  part,  with 
queer  windows,  and  doors  that  open  at  the  top 
while  they  remain  closed  at  the  bottom,  because 
they  are  sliced  in  two  across  the  middle.  Addi- 


L&TT&RS. 

tions  have  been  built  at  various  times  :  my  father 
built  the  last.  Altogether,  they  make  an  irregular, 
towered,  ivy-eaten,  bay-windowed,  pillared  pile  of 
house  so  big  I  feel  lost  like  a  mite  in  it. 

Pretty  soon  it  will  be  fine  enough  to  boat  on  the 
river.  I  have  always  rowed  and  yachted  a  great 
deal.  The  "  Drew"  and  "  Powell" — two  fine 
steamers — will  begin  to  make  regular  trips  near 
your  vacation-time.  If  you  like  to  come  up  and 
bring  some  of  your  chums,  the  house  may  seem 
more  like  home.  Any  changes  you  would  like  to 
have  made  in  the  furniture  I  will  attend  to  in  good 
time.  Enclosed  is  a  diagram  of  the  principal 
rooms,  with  a  short  description  of  their  contents. 

Don't,  however,  let  me  be  selfish  and  rule  your 
wishes.  If  you  would  like  to  go  back  to  Ohio  for 
the  summer,  tell  me  frankly.  But  perhaps  they 
will  let  Tillie  come  and  spend  the  summer  with 
you. 

Yours  as  always,  J.  S. 

Tamsin  to  Craqtte-rf-Doom. 

AT  SCHOOL,  April  16. 

DEAR  FRIEND, — I  got  your  letter.  You  are  so 
kind  to  me  that  I  lie  awake  to  think  about  it. 
After  you  were  gone  I  cried  till  I  was  nearly  sick. 
Of  course  that  was  foolish,  for  you  put  me  here  to 
improve  myself,  and  I  am  improving  all  the  time. 
You  must  excuse  me  for  not  being  able  to  write  a 


I  60  CRA  QUE-  CT-DOOM. 

beautiful  letter.  I  practise  a  great  deal  writing  my 
exercises,  but  my  hand  trembles  when  I  go  to 
write  to  you,  and  will  not  let  me  do  my  very  best 
Some  of  my  letters  to  Tillie  look  a  good  deal 
nicer. 

One  of  the  girls  and  I  have  been  reading  Tenny- 
son's "  Idyls  of  the  King."  I  like  Enid  best.  She 
is  a  Boston  girl  (the  one  I  am  reading  with,  I 
mean),  and  knows  a  great  deal.  She  says  every 
minute  of  our  time  ought  to  be  spent  in  progress- 
ing ;  but  we  eat  chocolate  caramels  when  it  isn't 
our  turn  to  read.  We  are  taking  a  course  in  the 
poets  as  a  rest  from  study.  She  says  she  adores 
Schiller  (I  think  that's  the  way  to  spell  it),  and  we 
are  going  to  read  something  by  a  man  named 
Goaty  or  Gaiety, — I  can't  remember  which.  There 
is  a  great  deal  to  learn.  I  used  to  love  to  read  at 
Captain  Mills's  house,  but  I  had  no  idea  how  many 
books  there  are  in  the  world. 

I  got  some  new  gloves  for  Easter ;  they  are  the 
color  of  very  pale  flag-lilies.  The  people  in  Bar- 
net  didn't  do  anything  but  color  eggs  on  Easter. 
I  used  to  color  them  with  calico  rags  for  Tillie. 
This  Easter  Sunday  we  went  to  church,  and  they 
had  very  beautiful  music  and  flowers.  Life  seems 
very  different  to  me  from  what  it  used  to. 

Your  house  must  be  very  nice.  I  don't  see  how 
anything  could  be  nicer.  If  Tillie  could  come  too, 
I  should  love  to  see  it.  This  girl  that  I  go  with 


LETTERS.  j6i 

(Sarah  Davidge)  might  like  to  come  too.  A  good 
many  of  the  others  have  not  got  what  I  call  good 
manners. 

This  is  a  long  letter. 

TAMSIN. 

P.S. — I  wrote  it  over  two  or  three  times,  but 
every  time  it  gets  blotted,  or  something. 

Craque-d -Doom  to  Tamsin. 

COLD  SPRINGS  ON  HUDSON,  April  19. 

MY  DEAREST  CHILD, — Your  pretty  little  letter 
did  me  a  world  of  good.  Why  should  you  make 
excuses  for  a  graceful  hand  and  an  original  way 
of  expressing  yourself?  I  have  it  in  my  breast- 
pocket, with  some  English  violets  from  the  green- 
house shut  in  it.  The  very  first  letter  you  ever 
wrote  me !  It  was  only  too  short.  I  wanted  to 
hear  more  of  your  reading,  and  your  young  friend, 
the  Easter  eggs  you  used  to  color  for  Tillie,  and 
the  pale  Easter  gloves  you  chose  to  feel  the  warmth 
of  your  innocent  hands  in  devotion. 

My  little  one,  I  hated  myself  when  I  read  that 
you  had  cried, — "  cried  till  you  were  nearly  sick." 
I  must  have  shocked  you.  I  forgot  myself, — or 
rather  I  thought  only  of  myself.  But  let  us  not 
talk  of  it  any  more.  In  time  I  shall  learn  how  best 
to  make  you  understand  what  your  happiness  is  to 
me.  I  send  by  express  some  books  from  the  library 
/  14* 


CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 

you  may  like  to  read.  The  Keats  I  read  and  marked 
long  ago  when  I  was  a  lonesome  boy,  before  I  knew 
you  were  in  the  world  or  would  ever  come  to  me. 
But  I  leave  it  as  it  was.  Perhaps  you  had  better 
not  share  this  book  with  the  Boston  young  lady. 

The  hills  are  beginning  to  put  on  such  an  ex- 
quisite green  !  Your  vacation  begins  the  first  week 
in  June ;  it  is  now  nearly  May.  There  is  more  than 
a  month  to  wait.  I  have  considerable  business  to 
attend  to :  perhaps  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to 
run  down  to  the  city  by  the  end  of  this  week.  As 
I  have  a  regular  arrangement  with  the  Hudson 
River  road  in  winter  and  the  steamer-men  in  sum- 
mer to  ship  my  carriage  with  myself  every  time  I 
go  down,  I  might  call  and  take  you  to  ride,  unless 
something  interferes. 

We  have  a  good  boat-house  and  several  skififs. 
I  will  have  them  overhauled  at  once,  painted,  and 
a  pair  of  oars  made  especially  for  a  lady  to  handle. 

Write  to  me  so  I  can  get  your  answer  by  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  My  business  in  New  York 
is  very  pressing. 

Yours, 

CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

P.S. — Do  you  think  that  is  a  funny  name  ?  I 
gave  it  to  myself  when  a  boy,  because  it  seemed 
appropriate  that  a  little  monster  should  have  a 
little  monstrous  name.  Would  you  mind  calling 
me  Craque-o'-Doom  instead  of  "  Friend"  ? 


LETTERS. 


163 


Note  from  Craque-o -Doom  to  Tamsin. 

23  April,  IN  THE  CARRIAGE. 

My  DEAR  CHILD, — I  write  this  on  a  scrap  from 
my  note-book.  Not  receiving  the  early  reply  I 
craved,  but  having  a  half-hour  to  spare,  I  have 
called,  but  find  you  out.  It  is  a  disappointment  to 
me.  They  told  me  you  were  very  well.  Thank 
God  for  that !  Please  write  to  me  as  soon  as  you 
have  time. 

Yours  as  always, 

CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

Tamsin  to  Craque-o' -Doom. 

AT  SCHOOL,  April  22. 

DEAR  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM, — It  is  a  funny  name, 
but  funny  names  are  the  nicest.  I  meant  to  write 
last  evening,  but  it  was  reception-night,  and  of 
course  I  could  not  be  let  alone.  Sarah  Davidge 
had  some  friends  coming  to  see  her,  and  she  would 
have  me  go  with  her.  They  always  dance  on 
reception-nights,  because  Madame  says  we  must 
learn  how  to  appear  in  society.  I  fixed  Sarah 
Davidge's  hair  like  mine.  She  is  a  little  near- 
sighted, but  looks  very  smart.  I  like  to  see  peo- 
ple hang  eye-glasses  around  their  necks.  We 
wore  our  long  black  silk  trains.  Ever  so  many 
girls  have  wanted  to  try  my  ring  on,  but  I  never 
would  let  one  of  them  touch  it.  It  always  looks 


CRA  Q  UE-  O"-D  O  OM. 

beautiful.  I  love  beautiful  things  so  much  I  have 
a  perfect  passion  for  them.  Sarah's  friends  were 
nice ;  I  danced  with  her  cousin  three  times.  Did 
you  know  I  had  learned  how  to  waltz  ?  It  is  so 
easy !  I  am  in  raptures  when  I  waltz.  Madame 
would  not  let  me  dance  any  more  with  Sarah's 
cousin :  she  was  very  smooth  and  nice,  but  gave 
me  a  look,  and  I  had  to  talk  with  some  old  ladies. 
I  would  love  to  get  a  chance  some  time  to  dance 
all  I  want  to.  I  was  crazy  to  learn  :  nobody  ever 
knew  how  bad  I've  wanted  to  dance  ;  and  the  waltz 
is  the  cream  of  it  all.  In  Barnet  they  had  balls, 
but  of  course  I  never  saw  them.  I  saw  Captain 
Mills's  cousin  and  Miss  Latta  waltz,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  I  must  know  how. 

You  will  think  I  am  very  frivolous.  It  is  differ- 
ent with  me  from  what  it  used  to  be,  I  feel  so  light 
and  happy;  but  I  am  trying  to  get  on  in  all  my 
studies.  They  seem  to  think  I  am  smart  here.  It 
is  not  like  Barnet. 

I  will  try  to  get  this  letter  to  you  in  time. 
Please  call :  we  can  have  such  a  nice  ride.  I  want 
to  see  you. 

Truly, 

TAMSIN. 

P.S. — You  didn't  say  what  day  or  what  hour. 


LETTERS. 


I65 


On  a  scrap  of  paper  thrust  into  the  same  envelope, 

April  23. 

Oh,  what  do  you  think  of  me !  I  supposed  I 
had  mailed  this  letter,  and  here  it  lies  among  my 
writing-paper  !  And  this  afternoon  I  was  out  for 
the  tiniest  little  bit  with  Sarah  Davidge  and  the 
French  teacher,  because  it  was  such  a  lovely  day, 
and  Saturday,  and  you  came  and  went  away  while 
I  was  gone.  I  thought  you  would  send  me  word 
just  when  you  would  be  here.  Why  didn't  you? 
I  watched  for  you  all  day  Friday.  Shall  I  always 
be  doing  things  that  look  ungrateful  and  mean  ? 
Now  you  won't  have  time  to  come  down  again  for 
ever  so  long,  I  know.  I  would  like  to  put  some- 
thing on  the  corner  of  the  paper,  but  you  might 
think  it  very  silly.  Besides,  you  must  be  very 
mad  at  me. 

TAMSIN. 

Craque-o'-Doom  to  Tamsin. 

COLD  SPRINGS  ON  HUDSON,  April  25. 
MY  DEAR  CHILD, — Never  mind :  it  was  my 
fault;  I  should  have  telegraphed.  No,  I  do  not 
think  I  can  come  down  again  immediately :  some 
time  next  month,  perhaps.  Besides  making  some 
spring  repairs  and  improvements  on  the  estate  and 
keeping  various  business  interests  well  in  hand,  I 


166  CKAQUE-a-DOO.M. 

have  just  been  mapping  out  a  course  of  hard  read- 
ing for  myself.  You  see,  your  industry  has  had 
its  effect  on  me. 

But  let  me  beg  one  thing  of  you,  little  one : 
never  again,  by  word  or  look  or  deed,  signify  that 
you  feel  "  gratitude"  toward  me.  It  causes  rne  ex- 
quisite torture.  Consider  my  possessions  yours 
by  right, — as  they  are. 

It  must  indeed  be  delightful  to  waltz.  I  can 
understand  the  feeling  you  describe:  I  have  it  in 
my  wrists,  and  my  floor  is  the  piano  key-board. 
Since  coming  home,  I  have  written  a  little  piece 
of  music  for  you  :  I  tried  to  put  in  the  song  of  a 
bird  down  in  our  orchard.  The  birds  are  nearly 
all  here.  Enclosed  find  a  rough  draft  of  it.  I 
have  had  headache,  which  may  account  for  my 
making  a  poorer-looking  musical  score  than  I 
usually  pride  myself  on  doing.  Have  you  heard 
yet  from  Mrs.  Burns? 

Put  that  something  "  on  the  corner  of  the  paper," 
my  child.  Why  should  I  think  anything  you  do 
silly?  Did  you  not  leave  your  beloved  little 
sister  and  come  bravely  away  with  me,  an  almost 
entire  stranger,  submit  yourself  to  my  guidance, 
and  enter  a  school  of  other  strangers  having  no 
one  but  me,  a  queer,  perhaps  unwholesome,  sort 
of  man,  to  whom  you  could  appeal  for  sympathy 
and  home  affection  ?  I  am  very  glad  you  have 
made  appreciative  friends.  Miss  Davidge's  cousin 


LETTERS.  167 

has  my  thanks — yes,  my  warm  thanks — for  giving 
you  pleasure.  If  you  would  like  to  include  your 
new  acquaintances  in  the  party  for  this  summer, 
do  so. 

But  write  me  another  little  letter  as  soon  as  you 
can.  No  matter  how  busy  I  may  be,  they  are  so 
welcome. 

Yours, 

CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

Craque-c? -Doom  to  Captain  Mills. 
(A  letter  which  was  not  sent.) 

COLD  SPRINGS  ON  HUDSON,  May  i. 

DEAR  TOM, — With  the  awful  example  before  me 
of  many  unhappy  wretches  who  have  written  con- 
fidential letters  and  afterward  had  them  exposed 
to  an  amused  public  by  death  of  the  confidant  or 
unforeseen  circumstances,  I  am  about  to  unload 
my  soul  upon  you,  and  get  in  return  the  consola- 
tion that  you  "  told  me  so." 

But  it's  not  going  to  turn  out  as  you  told  me. 
You  ought  to  see  her  now,  Tom :  there  isn't  her 
match  in  the  world.  You  would  hardly  believe 
two  or  three  months  could  make  such  a  difference. 
She's  all  sorts  of  ways, — bewitching,  grave,  child- 
ish, womanly.  It  is  delightful  torture  to  watch 
her  unfold.  But  she  will  never  care  for  me.  I 
went  down  to  the  city  a  few  days  ago  to  see  her, 


— the  errand  was  purely  a  pilgrimage  to  her, — and 
she  was  out.  They  told  me  in  what  direction  she 
had  gone,  and  I  made  my  man  drive  miles  on  the 
chance  of  catching  one  glimpse  of  her  face.  You 
don't  know  anything  about  it,  Tom. 

And  of  course  the  young  fellows  will  admire 
her.  I  think  she  regards  me  as  if  I  were  her 
father.  God  knows,  no  father  ever  carried  a  baby 
in  his  heart  as  I  carry  her. 

I've  been  trying  to  study  hard  and  master  this 
fever.  Nothing  of  the  sort  ever  happened  to  me 
before.  I  never  gave  rein  to  it.  And  I  didn't  con- 
sider the  danger  of  giving  way  to  this. 

Tom,  I'm  going  to  send  her  out  to  Barnet  for 
the  summer.  I  had  intended  to  bring  her  home 
with  a  lot  of  young  friends  to  amuse  her ;  but  I 
cannot  stand  it.  My  heart's  pretty  nearly  starved ; 
I  should  make  a  fool  of  myself.  She's  too  young 
to  understand  that  I  want  her  all  to  myself.  I 
didn't  know  what  the  effect  would  be  on  me  ;  but 
if  I  had  known,  it  would  have  been  just  the  same. 
What  I  have  to  do,  though,  is  to  act  merely  as  her 
kind  guardian  and  keep  my  own  feelings  down. 
Tom,  I  want  your  aunt  to  take  her  in  as  a  boarder 
while  she's  in  Barnet.  I  know  the  favor  I  ask,  but 
she  can't  stop  down  at  that  place  where  her  people 
live.  You  don't  know  how  necessary  beautiful 
surroundings  are  to  her.  She  is  devoted  to  her 
little  sister.  Do  me  the  favor,  Tom,  and  demand 


LETTERS. 


169 


anything  of  me  you  please.  And,  while  she  is 
there,  guard  her  like  the  apple  of  your  eye.  My 
God !  what  should  I  do  if  she  were  to  be  taken 
from  me  ?  It  will  be  torment  to  have  her  trusted 
to  a  railway-train.  But  she  will  get  tired  of  me  if 
I  follow  her  around.  I'm  off  for  another  strength- 
ening summer  among  the  lakes.  I've  got  to  be  a 
man.  The  principal  of  the  school  has  strict  orders 
to  telegraph  me  if  she  has  the  slightest  indispo- 
sition of  any  kind.  I  have  one  of  the  maid-ser- 
vants down  there  in  my  pay  to  wait  on  her  with 
extra  pains. 

You  ought  to  see  the  pretty  little  letters  she 
writes,  Tom.  No  man  ever  will  see  them,  but  it 
might  be  a  pleasure  to  any  one  to  do  so.  I  be- 
lieve I  loved  her  the  first  minute  her  black  eyes 
met  mine.  It  ought  to  be  enough  for  me  if  I  can 
make  up  to  her  for  the  privations  she  suffered  be- 
fore I  found  her. 

You  were  all  wrong  in  your  predictions.  What- 
ever the  tribe  from  which  she  sprung  may  be,  she 
is  delicate,  sparkling,  upright,  beauty-loving.  In 
fibre  she  is  a  lady  ;  in  mind,  a  swift-moving,  power- 
ful essence.  But  what  is  the  use  of  going  on  like 
this  to  you  f 

I  hope  you  won't  forget,  when  that  brother  of 
hers  comes  out  of  his  confinement,  to  do  as  I 
asked  you  to  do  for  him.  As  he  is  young,  and  it 
was  only  petit — misdemeanor,  a  good  start  and  a 


CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 

little  encouragement  may  bring  him  up.  He  cer- 
tainly showed  enterprise  by  getting  into  such  a 
scrape. 

Please  present  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Tea- 
garden,  and,  if  you  can,  ease  my  bosom  with  an 
early  reply. 

Yours  affectionately, 

CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

Craque-o'-Doom  to  Captain  Mills. 
(The  letter  which  was  sent.) 

COLD  SPRINGS  ON  HUDSON,  May  i. 

DEAR  TOM, — I  want  to  ask  a  great  favor  of  you. 
Will  you  receive  my  wife  into  your  house  as  a 
boarder  during  the  summer  ?  I  find  I  must  have 
another  Canadian  bout,  and,  besides,  it  does  not 
seem  advisable  to  bring  her  home  yet;  and  she 
wants  to  see  her  little  sister.  I  know  it  is  asking 
a  great  favor  of  your  aunt  and  yourself:  in  return 
you  may  demand  anything  you  wish  of  me.  I 
shall  feel  so  comfortable  and  safe  about  her  if  I 
know  she  is  in  the  companionship  of  your  ex- 
cellent aunt.  And  it  will  be  impossible  for  her 
to  stop  with  her  people ;  I  couldn't  allow  that. 
She  is  abundantly  fulfilling  the  promise  I  saw  in 
her. 

By  the  way,  whenever  that  unfortunate  fellow  I 


LETTERS.  171 

spoke  to  you   about  is  set  at  liberty,  be  sure  to 
notify  me.     A  little  lift  may  do  wonders  for  him. 
Excuse  brevity.     You  know  I  am  always 
Heartily  yours, 

CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

P.S. — How  about  Canada  for  you  this  summer? 

Telegram  from  Captain  Mills  to  Craque-d'-Doom. 

Just  starting  for  Denver.    But  it  will  be  all  right 
Send  her. 

TOM. 


172  CRAQUE-a-Df)OM. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

RETURN   OF    A   NATIVE. 

TAMSIN  came  to  Barnet  early  in  June.  Her  trip 
was  easy  and  delightful.  Craque-o'-Doom  him- 
self saw  her  put  in  a  palace-car,  from  which  she 
did  not  have  to  stir  until  she  reached  the  junction 
of  the  Barnet  road  with  the  trunk  line  on  which 
she  travelled.  The  railway-people  were  feed  to 
make  her  safety  and  comfort  their  particular  study. 
Craque-o'-Doom  had  thought  seriously  of  sending 
a  maid  with  her;  but  the  difficulty  of  finding  a 
suitable  person,  and  the  disinclination  of  Tamsin 
herself  to  appear  before  her  townspeople  so  at- 
tended, had  caused  him  to  give  up  the  idea. 

"  They'd  make  fun  of  me,"  said  Tamsin.  "They 
all  remember  how  I  used  to  look.  And  then  there 

are  father's  folks "  It  was  not  necessary  for 

her  to  explain  the  incongruity. 

"  I  see,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom.  He  had  delayed 
his  own  trip  until  she  was  safely  started.  Tom 
Mills  was  to  meet  her  at  the  station  and  telegraph 
her  arrival. 

She  parted  from  him  in  the  gayest  spirits.  She 
had  come  away  from  Barnet  in  storm  and  misery, 


RETURN  OF  A  NATIVE. 


173 


like  a  prisoner,  pitied  in  a  way  that  galled  her 
more  than  her  proud  nature  would  ever  own ;  she 
was  going  back  like  a  princess,  guarded  and 
tended,  covered  with  splendor,  and  having  the 
prestige  of  a  great  reserve  power.  The  sensitive 
deformed  man  told  this  to  himself  very  minutely. 
He  added  that  she  was  young  and  rebounding 
from  the  former  heavy  pressure  on  her  life.  And 
she  was  just  out  of  school :  there  must  be  some- 
thing unwholesome  and  abnormal  in  any  girl  who 
would  not  be  merry  when  just  out  of  school. 

Still,  her  gay  nods  to  him  from  the  open  car- 
window  jarred  him.  He  sat  in  the  carriage  some 
distance  away:  he  dared  not  risk  boarding  the 
train  or  crossing  the  many  tracks.  Now  he  saw 
her,  and  now  a  thousand  objects  crowded  between. 
He  wished  she  had  not  looked  so  exhilarated,  and 
was  in  torment  lest  some  accident  should  happen 
before  she  reached  even  Philadelphia.  She  started 
just  before  sunset.  He  thought  of  the  run  across 
the  mountains.  When  the  train  was  actually  gone, 
he  drove  away,  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast  and 
his  face  drawn.  Oh,  to  tower  up  among  other 
men !  "  If  I  had  been  a  big  animal  and  tyrannized 
over  her  a  little,  maybe  she  wouldn't  have  lost 
sight  of  me  so  gayly.  How  easy  it  was  to  per- 
suade her  to  go  away  instead  of  coming  to  Cold 
Springs  with  me !  Yet  I  didn't  give  her  any 
choice,  either.  I  wrote  that  she  might  go  to 
15* 


1 74  ckA  Q  VE-  ct-no  OA/. 

Barnet,  for  I  felt  obliged  to  take  another  rough 
Northern  trip  this  summer.  Miss  Rhoda  said  she 
was  likely  to  form  but  two  or  three  strong  attach- 
ments in  her  life." 

He  looked  at  the  seat  opposite  him, — the  car- 
riage, although  of  the  coupe  pattern,  had  b«en 
built  to  carry  four, — and  thought  of  her  shopping 
for  Tillie  and  her  remarks  about  Sarah  Davidge 
when  driving  to  the  train. 

"Are  you  disappointed  at  not  bringing  your 
chum  to  Cold  Springs  this  June?"  Craque-o'- 
Doom  had  inquired. 

"What  chum  ?"  said  Tamsin. 

"This  Miss  Davidge  you  write  to  me  about." 
He  knew  every  name  her  pen  had  traced. 

"  No.     I  don't  like  her  so  very  well." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  two  were  banded  for 
mutual  improvement?" 

Tamsin  studied  the  toe  of  her  boot.  "  Sarah 
Davidge  is  a  nice  girl,"  she  conceded,  "  but  I  don't 
like  to  hear  people  always  talking  about  belonging 
to  a  good  family." 

Craque-o'-Doom  smiled  under  his  moustache. 

Tamsin,  still  studying  the  toe  of  her  boot,  con- 
tinued :  "  And  it  makes  me  mad  to  hear  any  one 
say  folks  out  West  are  all  heathens." 

"  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  have  had 
some  slight  disagreements  with  Miss  Davidge?" 

"  Oh,  no :  we're  good  enough   friends.     I   like 


RETVRN  OF  A  NATIVE. 


175 


her  the  best  of  any  of  the  girls.     She  can't  help 
her  airs  " 

It  appeared  that  no  strong  attachment  had  been 
formed  for  Miss  Davidge. 

"  But  this  summer,"  muttered  the  lonely  dwarf, 
"  will  be  a  blooming  season  for  her, — an  impres- 
sionable May-time.  Still,  in  Barnet  she  will  not 
be  thrown  with  anybody  likely  to  attract  her,  un 
less  the  Millses  have  extraordinary  guests.  But 
she  is  by  nature  a  high  and  mighty  aristocrat :  I 
really  think  few  people  could  please  her.  Torn 
must  make  faithful  reports  to  me :  I  shan't  be  able 
to  stand  it  if  he  doesn't." 

Very  different  was  the  expression  of  Tamsin's 
face  when  she  arrived  late  in  the  pleasant  afternoon 
at  Barnet  station ;  she  was  the  only  passenger  for 
that  place.  Captain  Mills  was  on  the  platform ; 
at  a  little  distance  the  Mills  carriage  waited,  and 
by  the  captain's  side  stood  a  gawky  child  craning 
her  eager  neck  at  all  the  car-windows. 

With  a  start  of  delight  this  child  felt  herself 
seized ;  she  recognized  the  soft  touch  before  she 
could  turn  and  see  that  a  pretty  young  lady  had 
descended  from  the  last  car  instead  of  from  the 
baggage-van,  which  Tillie  thought  as  desirable  a 
vehicle  as  any.  The  object  which  did  come  down 
from  the  baggage-van  was  a  huge  Saratoga  trunk. 

Captain  Mills   touched    his  hat  and   took  the 


CRAQUE-Cf-DOOM. 

hand  which  Tamsin  gave  him  for  an  instant  across 
Tillie's  shoulder.  She  gave  him  barely  a  glance  ; 
there  was  such  gladness  in  her  face  as  she  rocked 
the  little  sister  to  and  fro  in  their  old  way!  The 
train  glided  off,  and  Neal,  on  his  driver's  seat,  rolled 
a  white  eye  at  the  pair;  but  Tamsin  did  not  know 
it,  or  that  Captain  Mills  wanted  the  check  for  her 
baggage. 

"My!  ain't  you  some!"  exclaimed  Tillie  when 
they  had  kissed. 

"  Why,  you've  grown  taller  !"  said  Tamsin. 

"Course  I  have.  Daddy  says  I  grow  like  an 
evil  weed."  Her  coral  expanse  of  lips  and  rows 
of  little  teeth  glistened. 

"  You've  been  well  all  the  time,  haven't  you  ?" 

"  Had  a  tech  of  aygur  once, — that's  all.  Oh, 
Tarn,  you  do  look  so  pretty!" 

"  Do  I  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  do." 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  here  to  meet  me." 

"  I'd  'a  come,"  said  Tillie,  "  if  I'd  had  to  foot  it; 
but  Tom  Mills  he  told  me  I  might  git  in  and  ride 
with  him." 

Tamsin  looked  up  toward  Captain  Mills  with  an 
expression  of  gratitude,  and  he  took  the  opportu- 
nity of  asking  for  her  check.  She  groped  in  her 
porte-monnaie  for  it,  and  reached  it  toward  him 
with  one  arm  while  she  held  Tiljie  to  her  with  the 
other.  He  went  into  the  station.  "  Are  they  all 


RETURN  OF  A  NATIVE. 

well  down  at  father's  ?"  inquired  the  new-comer 
with  sudden  recollection. 

"  Toler'ble.  You  knowed  Sarah  Jane  and 
Arter'd  got  married,  didn't  you  ?" 

"  Sarah  Jane  and  Arter !"  Tamsin's  eyes  di- 
lated. The  corners  of  her  mouth  drew  down  with 
a  scornful  spasm.  This  facial  comment  was  the 
only  one  she  ever  made  upon  this  typical  Cheno- 
worth  match.  Tillie  understood,  but  it  was  all  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  her.  She  took  no  care 
about  the  doings  of  her  relatives,  excepting  this 
sister.  "  When  did  they  get  married  ?"  inquired 
Tamsin. 

"  Well,  it  was  a  couple  of  weeks  ago.  I  thought 
I  wrote  you  about  it ;  but  I  guess  Mary  took 
that  letter  down  to  her  house  and  stuck  it  in 
the  winder,  and  I  forgot  to  put  it  in  the  post- 
office." 

Tamsin  looked  somewhat  graver :  the  scent  of 
the  old  atmosphere  had  come  to  her  nostrils.  She 
shuddered  as  if  it  had  been  an  odor  of  death. 

"  Ain't  ye  glad  to  git  back  ?"  said  Tillie. 

"  I'm  glad  to  have  hold  of  you  again,  honey. 
But  I  don't  like  Barnet." 

"  Them's  better  places  where  you've  been  ?" 

"  Oh,  lovely  places !  You've  got  on  one  of  the 
dresses  I  sent.  And  the  shoes :  let  me  see  your 
shoes." 

Tillie  exhibited  her  boot  and  a  lank  length  of 


CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

ankle :  "  Yes,  these  is  some  of  the  things.  Oh, 
but  the  'cordion  ! — that  was  the  nicest !" 

"Did  you  like  it?" 

"  I  guess  I  did !  Tam,  I  can  play  '  Mary  to  the 
Saviour's  Tomb,'  and  '  Greenville,'  and  '  Father  in 
a  Promised  Land,'  and  '  Pop  goes  the  Weasel,'  and 
a  whole  lot  o'  tunes,  on  it  a'ready."  The  eager 
quiver  of  the  child's  body  was  checked  as  if  by  a 
galvanic  jerk.  She  looked  up  at  her  senior,  re- 
minded of  what  was  proper  to  the  occasion,  and 
inquired  agedly,  "  How's  that  man  o'  yourn,  any- 
how ?" 

Tamsin  shook  with  laughter. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  funny  in  that,  is  there?" 
urged  Tillie. 

"  Not  very.  He's  well,  and  sent  his  love  to 
you." 

"  I  don't  believe,"  observed  Tillie,  weighing  the 
matter,  "  that  he's  half  as  mean  as  I  thought  he 
was  at  first.  He's  a  real  good  kind  of  a  feller." 

Captain  Mills,  having  seen  Tamsin's  trunk  put 
into  the  daily  baggage-wagon  which  ran  to  Barnet, 
now  came  up  to  help  her  into  the  carriage.  She 
nodded  slightly  to  Neal  as  she  ascended  the  step. 
He  made  a  most  obsequious  bow  to  her,  but  as  he 
drove  he  did  not  fail  to  roll  the  whites  of  his  eyes 
back  at  her  occasionally.  She  had  risen  to  the 
plane  of  grandeur  which  his  race  reveres,  and  was 
no  longer  a  Chenoworth.  Still,  he  could  not  rec- 


RETURN  OF  A  NATIVE. 


179 


oncile  himself  to  the  change ;  and  Tillie  Cheno- 
worth  sat  beside  this  new  lady :  he  disapproved  of 
Tillie  as  strongly  as  ever. 

Captain  Mills,  who  occupied  the  front  seat  with 
Neal,  turned  round  and  chatted  with  Tamsin. 
He  was  under  some  constraint,  but  that  wore  off. 
She  looked  ripe  and  girlish  in  her  close-fitting 
travelling  suit,  and  her  former  awe  of  him  as  a 
great  man  was  gone :  both  these  circumstances 
placed  her  at  an  advantage.  He  inquired  about 
Craque-o'-Doom,  and  noticed  the  smoother  modu- 
lations of  her  voice.  He  told  her  of  some  changes 
in  Barnet,  and  meanwhile  was  carrying  on  a  sepa- 
rate train  of  thought  based  on  his  observations  of 
her.  She  did  not  appear  the  same  person  he  had 
once  identified  as  Tamsin  Chenoworth.  That  a 
few  months  could  make  such  changes  was  miracu- 
lous. Either  he  had  never  known  the  girl,  or 
girls  were  capable  of  being  rapidly  made  over. 
He  had  expected  her  to  put  on  exuberant  airs  in 
dress  and  manner  and  talk  of  nothing  but  "  our 
school"  and  "  the  girls,"  higher  mathematics,  and 
her  most  intimate  friends  among  the  "  seniors." 
Boarding-school  young  ladies  always  did  so  :  no 
creatures  on  earth  are  more  stuffed  with  a  sense 
of  their  own  importance.  But  she  was  not  raw 
and  rasping :  the  change  had  struck  through  her 
entire  nature.  It  might  not  be  a  disagreeable  job 
to  watch  over  her  welfare,  as  he  had  promised 


CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 

Craque-o'-Doom  he  would  do,  feeling  at  the  time 
he  was  the  best-natured  victim  that  insinuating 
fellow  ever  took  in. 

They  drove  along  the  pike,  meeting  the  sunset 
face  to  face.  Tamsin  held  up  one  gloved  hand 
to  shield  her  eyes.  When  they  entered  Barnet, 
how  small  the  canal-bridge  looked,  how  shabby 
the  warehouses  rising  from  the  water-edge,  how 
mean  the  stores,  how  pitiful  the  one  or  two  blocks 
of  brick  pavement!  She  noticed  these  things  si- 
lently, bending  her  head  with  a  mere  smile  when 
Captain  Mills  inquired  if  Barnet  did  not  appear  in- 
significant after  New  York. 

"  But  as  natives  we  ought  to  feel  an  attachment 
for  Barnet,"  said  he. 

"  It  looks  best  in  summer,"  she  observed.  The 
woods  on  its  northwest  quarter  were  glorious  in  foli- 
age. "  We'll  go  to  the  woods  to-morrow,  Tillie." 

"  Me  and  Mary's  young  uns  has  been  all  over 
them  woods  since  the  hossy-boys  was  in  blossom," 
exclaimed  Tillie.  "  Oh,  it's  pretty  up  the  slope  a 
ways !  Do  you  mind  when  you  and  me  used  to 
go  elderberry-pickin',  Tarn  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly  I  do, — along  the  canal." 

"  And  we  was  'fraid  and  hid  ourselves  in  the 
bushes  when  boats  went  past, — 'fraid  the  boatmen 
'ud  sass  us.  You  wouldn't  be  afraid  now :  would 
you  ?"  This  was  affirmed  rather  than  asked. 

Captain  Mills  smiled. 


RETURN  OF  A  NATIVE.  \%i 

"Why  wouldn't  I?"  asked  Tamsin.  She  held 
one  of  Tillie's  claws  on  her  lap. 

The  child,  somewhat  at  a  loss,  looked  deferen- 
tially at  her  and  tried  to  explain :  "  Oh,  "cause 
You  ain't  the  same  like  you  was  then." 

"  What  is  there  different  about  me  ?" 

"  Well,  you  ain't  "fraid." 

"  You  think  I'm  very  bold  now?" 

"  You've  been  away,"  proceeded  Tillie,  clearing 
the  matter  up  entirely, "  and  learnt  proper''  Tamsin 
and  the  captain  laughed  :  even  Neal  grinned  as  he 
turned  his  horses  toward  the  Hill-house. 

"  But  I  thought  you's  comin'  home!"  ex- 
claimed the  child,  gripping  both  hands  around  her 
sister's  arm,  as  she  saw  the  carriage  thus  turn  its 
back  on  the  Chenoworth  quarter. 

Tamsin  took  the  arm  away  and  put  it  around  her. 
"  You  are  to  stay  up  here  with  me,"  she  said,  "  be- 
cause there  is  more  room  than  at  father's.  I  shall 
be  with  you  just  as  much.  I  will  go  there  too. 
Mr.  Sutton  arranged  it  with  Captain  Mills. — Didn't 
he,  Captain  Mills  ?" 

"  That's  the  understanding,"  replied  the  host. 

"  And  I  told  you  in  my  letter." 

Tillie  readjusted  facts  in  her  mind.  While  thus 
occupied,  it  occurred  to  her,  "  You  don't  call  him 
Tom  Mills  no  more." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Tamsin,  reddening. 

"  You  used  to." 

16 


1 8  2  CRA  Q  UE-  O'-D  O  OM. 

"  I  have  learned  not  to  take  such  liberties." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Tom  Mills,  smiling. 
He  looked  up  toward  the  house.  Tamsin  was 
quite  rosy. 

"  You  says  '  father/  too,  instead  o'  '  daddy,'"  ru- 
minated Tillie.  "  Ain't  you  goin'  to  say  '  mammy' 
and  '  daddy'  any  more  ?" 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  Is  it  'cause  you're  too  proud  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  any  prouder  than  I  always 
was." 

"They  said  you'd  git  reel  stuck-up.  I  don't 
think  you  are,  though.  You've  just  learnt  proper. 
My !"  meditated  Tillie,  shaking  her  head,  "  how 
proper  you  have  learnt !" 

When  they  paused  on  the  drive  beside  the  Hill- 
house,  Aunt  Sally  Teagarden,  with  a  white  kerchief 
tied  hastily  over  her  head,  came  out,  a  little  flurried 
and  unsettled  in  her  manner.  She  did  not  know 
just  how  to  receive  her  former  handmaid,  of  whose 
new  connection  she  disapproved  while  having  the 
girl's  welfare  at  heart.  The  humdrum  life  at  Bar- 
net  had  produced  few  changes :  she  was  astounded 
to  see  coming  out  of  the  carriage  such  a  refined, 
pretty  creature. 

"  Why,  Mrs— !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Sally.  "  Why, 
Miss — !  Why — !"  There  she  checked  herself, 
to  stand  in  fine  dignity  and  put  forth  the  good  old 
formula,  "  How  do  you  do  ?" 


«  YOUR    WEDDIN'-EXPENSES." 


CHAPTER    XX. 

"  YOUR    WEDDIN '-EXPENSES." 

IN  a  day's  time  Aunt  Sally  had  fallen  into  very 
pleasant  relations  with  Tamsin,  and  existence  at 
the  Hill  house  moved  in  its  usual  comfortable 
groove.  Tillie  sat  at  the  tea-table,  and  slept  with 
her  sister  in  one  of  the  spacious  front  guest-rooms. 
She  accepted  all  changes  with  the  heedless  adapta- 
bility of  childhood. 

The  next  morning,  when  they  started  down  hill, 
she  skipped  beside  Tamsin,  delighted  only  to  have 
her  near,  and  certain  that  the  neighbors  and  towns- 
people gazed  because  they  were  delighted  too.  In 
the  back  street  there  was  a  long  gauntlet  of  hum- 
ble doors  framing  stolid  women.  Some  nodded 
distantly  in  reply  to  Tamsin's  greeting  and  noted 
the  style  of  her  dress  and  extravagance  of  her 
parasol  and  low  shoes;  others  disappeared  just 
as  she  came  by,  and  took  refuge  behind  window- 
blinds,  as  if  they  could  not  stand  such  refulgent 
prosperity ;  while  a  few  came  out  to  their  gates 
and  shook  hands  stiffly,  talking  up  to  her  in  a 
way  to  make  her  feel  they  were  just  as  good  as 
she  was,  and  that  she  had  not  been  "  well  off" 


184  CRAQUE-CT-DOOAt. 

such  a  very  long  time  herself.  These  shades  of 
social  sentiment  were  lost  on  Tillie :  she  was  pa- 
rading her  sister.  It  occurred  to  her  several  times 
to  call  attention  to  the  trappings  Tamsin  carried, 
but  they  were  merely  incidental  in  her  eyes. 

"Ain't  this  a  pretty  dress  she's  got  on,  Mis' 
Flowers !"  exclaimed  Tillie  to  a  dishevelled 
woman  who  stood  with  her  hands  on  her  hips 
and  several  of  her  dirty  buds  around  her.  Tam- 
sin, while  talking  a  moment  to  the  mother,  was 
recognizing  for  the  first  time  the  piggish  comeli- 
ness there  is  about  children  who  wallow. 

Tillie's  exuberance  amused  her,  but  it  had  a 
chilling  effect  on  Mrs.  Flowers.  "  Balls's  girls 
has  all  got  dresses  somethin'  like  that,"  she  ob- 
served. "What  fer  goods  is  it?" 

"  Silk,"  replied  Tillie,  rubbing  the  fabric  between 
her  finger  and  thumb. — "Ain't  it  silk,  Tamsie?" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Tamsin. 

"But  ain't  it  silk?" 

"  I  thought  'twas  callyco,"  said  Mrs.  Flowers : 
"  the  figger's  like  it." 

At  the  Chenoworth  gate  a  curious  neighbor  was 
talking  with  Sarah  Jane  beside  a  pail  of  water  which 
seemed  destined  to  no  further  use  in  the  world  than 
reflecting  stalks  of  flowering  currant  by  the  fence. 
The  doors  stood  open :  the  premises  were  alert 
with  a  summer  look.  The  front  windows  were 
heavy  with  vines,  the  dry  walk  bordered  by  prim- 


"  YOUR    WEDDIW -EXPENSES."  ^5 

roses  and  four-o'clocks  and  all  that  old-fashioned 
treasury  of  flowers. 

Tamsin  saw  her  mother  hoeing  in  the  garden ; 
the  ancient  cornstalks  were  gone,  and  lines  of  ten- 
der ones  appeared  in  their  places. 

"  I  s'posed  you'd  be  above  comin'  here,"  said 
Sarah  Jane  as  the  neighbor  stood  aside  to  let 
Tamsin  enter  the  gate.  It  was  a  new  neighbor, — 
one  of  the  many  floaters  of  the  back  street, — and 
Tamsin  did  not  know  her. 

The  sisters  took  each  other's  hands.  It  was  a 
singular  greeting,  kindly  indifference  appearing  on 
one  side  and  suppressed  resentment  on  the  other. 

"  Is  father  in  the  garden,  too  ?"  inquired  Tamsin. 

"  No ;  he's  down  town.  One  of  Mary's  young 
uns  can  run  and  tell  him  you're  here." 

"  Never  mind.  I  can  see  him  soon,  anyhow. 
Where  is  Mary  ?" 

"  She's  washin'  fer  Mis'  Ewing  to-day."  The 
neighbor  took  up  her  water-pail  and  moved  away, 
while  Sarah  Jane  walked  beside  her  sister  to  the 
garden. 

It  was  Tillie  who  caught  the  old  mother  around 
the  waist  and  turned  her  remonstrating  sun-bonnet 
toward  Tamsin. 

"My  sakes  alive!"  complained  Mrs.  Cheno- 
worth ;  "  if  you  don't  quit  a-scarin'  me  that  way, 
Tillie,  I'll  fetch  you  such  a  rap —  Why,  is  that 
Tamsin  ?  No,  'tain't." 

1 6* 


1 86  CRA  Q  UE-  O'-DO  OM. 

"  Yes,  it  is,  mother."  The  daughter  put  her 
arms  up  and  kissed  the  old  mouth  ;  yet,  in  doing 
so,  she  was  conscious  of  a  blank  and  aching  feel- 
ing in  her  bosom. 

Mrs.  Chenovvorth  was  not  especially  glad  to  see 
her.  They  seemed  to  be  a  race  without  emotions. 
"  Don't  step  on  that  tater-hill,"  she  said,  and  set 
her  sun-bonnet  straight  on  her  head.  "  Well,  we 
heard  you  got  here  last  night.  Come  into  the 
house."  They  all  wended  their  way  thither. 

"  Everybody  is  well  ?"  inquired  Tamsin. 

"  Middlin'.     How's  your  man?" 

"  Well,  thank  you." 

They  entered  the  low  door,  and  when  Mrs. 
Chenoworth  had  selected  the  particular  split- 
bottomed  chair  she  wished  Tamsin  to  sit  in,  it 
occurred  to  her  to  remark,  "  Sary  Jane  'and  Arter 
they've  made  a  match." 

"  So  Tillie  told  me." 

Sarah  Jane  put  her  apron  to  her  eyes ;  her  face 
reddened  violently. 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  happy,"  said  Tamsin. 

"  Oh,  I'll  bet  you  do  ! — with  a  great  big  lazy 
hulk  like  him  on  my  hands!  You  could  always 
have  things  your  own  way,  and  I  may  take  up 
with  your  leavin's." 

Tamsin  looked  at  her  with  mild  compassion  ; 
"  You  needn't  have  married  him." 

"  I  thought  mebby  he'd  fetch  in  somethin',"  ex- 


«  YOUR    WEDDIN'-EXPKNSES." 


I87 


plained  Sarah  Jane,  crying ;  "  but  he  ain't  done  a 
lick  o'  work  since ;  and  when  he  has  a  job  he 
won't  stick  to  it.  And  there's  that  baby." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  It's  asleep,"  snapped  Sarah  Jane.  "  I  couldn't 
git  nobody  to  take  it,  and  it  a-hinderin'  me  from 
doin'  any  good  for  myself.  Arter  he  talked  around 
and  talked  around  till  I  went  and  had  him  ;  and 
now  what  have  I  come  to !" 

Mrs.  Chenoworth  drew  a  deep  sigh.  Every  new 
complication  in  her  family  brought  her  greater 
resignation :  it  was  the  natural  lot  of  woman  to 
suffer.  But  she  turned  toward  Tamsin  with  a 
strange  look.  Tamsin  scarcely  belonged  to  her. 
"  Things  is  different  with  you,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  they  are  different." 

Tamsin  felt  a  sudden  thrill  through  her  bosom 
as  she  spoke.  She  saw  a  bland,  gray-eyed  head 
standing  out  on  the  air  with  no  appendage  of  de- 
formed body.  He  had  saved  her  from  this  misery 
of  race,  before  which  she  could  still  only  sit  help- 
less. The  fine  aroma  of  his  spirit  came  to  her  in 
his  absence :  he  would  have  made  the  world  dif- 
ferent to  her  even  had  he  been  poor.  ; 

A  tramping  on  the  step  and  a  shadow  darkening 
the  door  caused  her  to  look  up  and  see  her  father 
The  old  man  was  grayer  and  more  hairy ;  he  wore 
goggles  over  his  eyes  to  protect  them  from  sun- 
glare,  and  a  coat  so  tattered  and  patched  it  was 


188  CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 

hard  to  tell  what  color  it  had  faded  and  degener- 
ated from.  Tamsin  knew  of  old  her  father's  tastes 
in  raiment :  no  matter  how  many  whole  garments 
he  had,  he  wore  most  and  enjoyed  himself  best  in 
tatters.  He  made  rather  a  loud  demonstration 
over  her,  and  smacked  her  cheek  with  a  kiss. 
John  and  George  appeared  also,  and  shook  her 
glove  with  clumsy  hands. 

While  she  talked  with  her  family  she  kept  look- 
ing round  with  the  old  astonishment  at  their  ways 
and  habits  of  thought,  and  that  aversion  toward 
them  which  had  been  born  in  her  was  only  tem- 
pered by  pity.  She  did  not  like  them ;  formerly 
she  had  loathed  them.  The  feeling  was  lessened, 
— not  because  they  had  gained  upon  her  affections, 
but  because  she  had  a  scope  and  a  world  no  longer 
bound  by  them. 

With  Tillie  all  to  herself  in  the  woods  it  was 
different.  The  summer  was  young  with  them. 
Every  smell  was  pungent:  the  earth  and  grass 
still  had  an  odor  that  one  sucked  in  with  all  one's 
lungs.  Both  girls  knew  a  hollow  in  the  woody 
hill  which  rose  west  of  Barnet.  Tillie  carried  her 
instrument,  and  they  went  there  and  sat  on  a  log 
so  crusted  with  moss  and  reduced  from  fibre  by 
Nature's  alchemy  that  it  was  scarcely  stronger 
than  a  heap  of  dust  and  gave  way  in  places  to  the 
treading  foot  or  leaning  hand.  It  was  a  bank  of 
many  tiny  moss-cups.  Tamsin  and  Tillie  had  sat 


"  YOUR    WEDDING-EXPENSES." 

on  that  log  every  summer  for  years.  The  woods 
dimmed  the  daylight  all  around  them.  Far  off 
they  could  hear  the  rumble  of  vehicles  on  the 
pike. 

When  Tamsin  settled  herself,  the  little  one 
kicked  a  space  clear  of  last  year's  leaves,  and, 
patting  the  turf  with  her  feet,  played  all  her  tunes. 
The  tree-trunks  echoed  the  music.  When  she 
finally  placed  the  accordion  on  the  log  and  climbed 
up  between  it  and  Tamsin,  her  face  was  damp 
with  exertion,  and  she  lifted  the  bottom  of  her 
dress  to  wipe  her  neck. 

"  What  a  smart  little  girl  I've  got !"  said  the 
elder,  putting  her  arms  around  the  child. 

"  I  learnt  'em  nearly  all  myself.  Just  ketched 
'em  by  ear." 

"  When  you  come  to  stay  with  me  you  can  have 
a  piano  to  play  on." 

"  That'd  be  pretty  nice,"  conceded  Tillie ;  "  but  I 
don't  see  how  a  feller  can  help  likin'  the  'cordion 
best.  It's  so  little :  you  can  carry  it  round  and 
hug  it.  Gne  of  Mary's  young  uns  come  nigh 
pickin'  a  hole  in  it.  My !  what'd  I  done  with  that 
young  un  if  it  had  !" 

"  Honey — "  began  Tamsin. 

"I  like  to  hear  that!"  exclaimed  the  child; 
"  sounds  like  you  used  to  talk.  I  expect  my  talk 
does  seem  awful  to  you,  Tarn." 

"  I  never  found  any  fault  with  you,  dear  " 


CRAQUE-Cf-DOOM. 

"  I  know  you  don't ;  but  you've  learnt  proper 
and  I  ain't.  I'm  goin'  to  begin  to,  though." 

Tamsin  laughed  and  rocked  the  flaxen  head. 
"  We're  sisters,"  she  said, — "  real  sisters." 

Tillie  admitted  it  as  they  rocked.  "  Mary  and 
Sary  Jane's  sisters,  too,"  she  added.  "  I  like  Mary 
better'n  I  do  Sary  Jane ;  but  I  don't  like  nobody 
half  as  well  as  I  do  you,  Tam, — daddy  nor  mammy, 
nor  nobody."  ("  Father  nor  mother,"  she  tried 
under  her  breath.)  "  Not  father,  nor  mother,  nor 
nobody.  I  did  miss  you  so.  Now,  don't  you 
laugh  if  I  tell  you  somethin',  will  ye?"  She  tilted 
her  head  and  challenged  Tamsin  with  her  light- 
blue  eyes :  the  iris  was  very  clear  and  pure. 

"  Of  course  not,"  promised  Tamsin. 

"  I  did  feel  that  bad,  and  I'd  wake  up  in  the 
night  and  couldn't  go  to  sleep,  when  you  first 
went  away.  The  only  thing  that  done  me  any 
good  was,  I'd  pat  my  piller,  this  way,  like  it  was 
your  face,  and  say,  '  Place  hands,  place  hands !' " 
This  was  Tillie's  individual  and  peculiar  caress. 
She  meant  by  it  blessing  and  benediction. 

Tamsin  suddenly  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  face. 

"  You  ain't  laughin',  are  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Are  ye  cryin'  ?     Don't  cry,  Tam." 

"  Oh,  honey,"  said  Tamsin,  devouring  this  merry 
little  face  with  eyes  which  dilated  while  she  gazed, 
"  what  shall  I  ever  do  without  you  ?" 


YOUR  WEDDING-EXPENSES." 


191 


"  There's  your  man,"  suggested  Tillie.  "  You 
think  a  heap  of  him,  don't  you  ?" 

The  warmth  deepened  under  Tamsin's  skin. 
She  looked  wistfully  at  the  child,  but  made  no 
reply. 

"  I  don't  think  much  o'  men.  I  don't  never  in- 
tend to  git  married.  Mary  and  Sary  Jane  has^got 
their  come-uppance  gittin'  married.  And  you've 
got  such  a  funny-lookin'  man,  Tarn." 

"  You  don't  know  him,  dear.  If  you  saw  how 
kind  and  fine  he  is — " 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  reel  clever  feller.  I  think  con- 
sider'ble  of  that  'cordion." 

"  And  didn't  you  like  the  dresses  and  all  the 
rest?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  very  well  pleased.  And  I  like  the 
new  things  you  brought  me  when  you  come. 
But  I  was  spited  about  that  blue  sack." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  were  pleased  with  it." 

"  I  was,  I  tell  ye.  But  Mary  she  had  to  bony 
it  for  one  of  her  young  uns,  and  she  kep'  a-borryin' 
it  till  they  had  it  there  all  the  time.  I  didn't  min' 
her  havin'  whatever  else  she  wanted  ;  but  that  blue 
sack, — it  was  a  spite  for  it  to  be  took." 

"  I'll  get  you  another, — a  prettier  one." 

"  If  you  do,"  advised  Tillie  sagely,  "  git  one 
apiece  for  all  the  connections  first." 

Coming  home,  they  passed  Mary's  house.  She 
lived  in  what  was  known'as  the  "  nigger  quarters," 


CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 

several  colored  families  holding  sway  thereabouts. 
The  voices  of  their  noisy  progeny  could  always  be 
heard,  singing,  crying,  or  quarrelling, — but  their 
gardens  were  marvellous,  even  in  pastoral  Barnet. 

Tamsin  and  Tillie  stopped  at  Mary's  fence.  She 
was  weeding  her  onion-bed,  but  came  forward, 
pulling  down  her  sleeves.  Her  hands  had  that 
shrunken  look  which  parboiling  in  soap-suds 
gives ;  her  dress  hung  lank  about  her,  and  half 
the  slats  were  out  of  the  limpest  sun-bonnet  that 
ever  hung  over  a  dejected  woman's  face.  Still, 
and  in  spite  of  her  humiliations  and  incapacities, 
there  was  always  a  remnant  of  dignity  about 
Mary.  Tamsin  took  her  hands  and  reached  over 
the  fence  to  kiss  her,  touched  by  this  sister  as  she 
had  never  been  before. 

"  How  are  you  ?" 

"  Tol'able,  thank  you.     You  look  real  well." 

"  I  am  well.     Where  are  the  children  ?" 

"Some's  along  where  he's  a-ditchin',  and  I  don't 
know  where  the  boys  are.  That's  Jinnie  hidin' 
behind  the  ker'n'-bushes. — Come  here,  Jinnie,  and 
see  Aunt  Tamsin." 

"Yes,  come,"  called  Tamsin.  But  the  white- 
headed  child  merely  peeped,  and  refused  to  appear. 

Tamsin  looked  over  her  sister's  drawn  and 
pinched  face,  still  keeping  a  hand  on  her  arm 
as  both  of  them  leaned  on  the  fence.  "  You're 
tired,  aren't  you,  Mary?" 


"  YOUR    WEDDIN '-EXPENSES."  ig$ 

"Yes:  I' been  washin'  for  Mis'  Ewin'.  I  just 
got  done  a  little  while  ago,  and  thought  I  could 
weed  some  before  he  wanted  his  supper."  She 
avoided  Tamsin's  eyes,  and  gazed  rather  on  her 
hands  or  dress  or  Tillie's  clothing,  with  that  ner- 
vous attempt  at  self-possession  which  is  so  painful 
to  see  in  a  woman  who  carries  her  broken  pride 
through  her  misfortunes. 

"  I  am  coming  to  see  you  some  afternoon,"  sa'd 
Tamsin. 

"  Do,"  said  Mary  stiffly.  "  You're  goin'  to  stay 
up  at  Mills's,  ain't  you  ?  We  heard  you  was." 

"  Yes  :  Mr.  Sutton  got  them  to  board  me." 

"  I  thought  'twasn't  likely  he'd  want  you  to  stay 
at  daddy's,  where  they're  so  crowded." 

Tamsin  decided  that  Mary  had  some  sense,  and 
in  this  respect  differed  from  Sarah  Jane. 

"  If  you  want  to  talk  proper,  Mary,"  expostulated 
Tillie,  "  don't  say  '  daddy' :  it's  '  father.'  Tarn  says 
'  father.' " 

Mary's  face  grew  hot,  but  she  replied,  "  My 
proper  days  is  past,  Tillie.  I  ain't  tryin'  no  more. 
Tamsin'll  have  to  learn  for  the  whole  family." 

"  Tillie  will  make  everybody  laugh  at  me,"  ex- 
postulated Tamsin.  "  She  asked  Mrs.  Flowers  to 
look  at  my  dress,  and  she  acts  as  if  I  came  out  for 
a  show.  That  isn't  proper,  honey." 

"  Well,"  said  Tillie,  twisting  herself,  "  you  can't 
expect  me  to  learn  everything  proper  right  off." 
i       »  17 


CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

The  very  first  ripe  currants  were  on  the  tea-table 
at  the  Hill-house.  Neal  stood  by  the  sideboard, 
in  his  old  place,  ready  to  start  at  a  motion  from 
his  mistress  ;  but,  before  it  was  time  to  change 
plates  in  the  simple  country  tea,  he  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  ruminate  long  and  deeply  on  the  promo- 
tion of  Chenoworth's  Damsel.  He  saw  her  sitting 
up  there  as  fresh  as  a  rose,  acting  the  lady ;  a  few 
months  before  she  was  an  odd-job  girl,  whose  pp- 
sition  he  considered  far  less  dignified  than  that  of 
a  regular  servant.  His  master  looked  at  her,  too, 
seeing  with  constant  surprise  her  many  small 
stylish  ways.  Her  flesh  had  a  warm  under-tint 
which  it  had  lacked  in  her  days  of  precarious 
side-meat. 

When  Tamsin  had  been  home  a  few  days,  old 
Mr.  Chenoworth  came  slouching  up  to  the  Hill- 
house  one  morning,  looking  about  him  in  every 
direction,  with  his  lips  drooping  apart.  The  cook 
happened  to  be  in  the  garden  with  Aunt  Sally, 
and  Neal  busy  on  the  vineyard  slope,  so  there 
was  nobody  about  the  great  drowsing  house  ex- 
cept Tamsin  and  Captain  Mills.  The  latter  had 
just  come  in  and  thrown  himself  on  a  sofa  in  the 
back  parlor.  Tamsin  was  in  the  library,  writing  a 
letter. 

The  old  man  went  cautiously  around  the  house, 
and,  returning  to  the  side-porch  on  the  east  side, 
stepped  up  and  knocked.  Tamsin  saw  him  through 


"  YOUR    WEDDIN'-EXPENSES."  ig$ 

a  window.  The  door  was  open,  and  she  reached 
it  before  Captain  Mills  had  lifted  his  drowsy 
length. 

"  Won't  you  come  in,  father?" 

"  I  hain't  got  time.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  ye  a 
minute." 

"IsTillie  sick?" 

"  No.  She  ain't  been  from  here  more'n  half  an 
hour.  I've  got  to  go  over  to  Norwalk  to-morrow, 
— there's  some  things  for  me  to  settle  over  there. 
I  want  you  to  lend  me  five  or  ten  dollars." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tamsin. 

He  had  spoken  low,  and  Captain  Mills's  indiffer- 
ent ear  did  not  make  out  the  request.  Tamsin 
went  to  her  room  and  brought  him  what  he  asked 
for.  It  was  money  given  to  her  to  spend  as  she 
pleased.  She  smiled  as  she  came  down-stairs: 
history  was  repeating  itself, — -he  still  wanted  her 
wages. 

"  I'll  give  it  back  as  soon  as  I  git  it,"  he  prom- 
ised. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  father." 

At  least  four  times  during  the  summer  he  made 
excursions  to  Norwalk,  and  each  time  borrowed  a 
similar  sum.  Since  he  could  no  longer  charge  up 
board  and  lodging  against  her,  he  had  no  resource 
but  to  borrow.  When  the  season  was  quite  over, 
it  may  be  mentioned  here,  old  Mr.  Chenoworth 
fully  cancelled  these  loans.  He  saw  Tamsin,  and 


!g6  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

said  to  her,  "  Tarn,  that  money  that  I  got  of 
you—" 

"  Never  mind  it,  father.  It's  all  Mr.  Button's, 
and  he  would  want  you  to  keep  it." 

"  But  I  borrowed  it.  I'll  let  it  go  against  your 
weddin'-expenses.  That  was  some  expense,  but  I 
didn't  charge  it  up  agin  you  at  the  time." 

When  she  came  in  from  the  veranda  on  this  first 
occasion,  Captain  Mills,  lounging  against  the  sofa- 
pillow,  inquired,  "  Was  that  your  father?" 

"  Yes :  he's  gone  now." 

Tom  had  guessed  her  errand  up-stairs.  "  Did 
you  know  that  your  husband  pays  him  a  regular 
allowance  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Tamsin  with  a  start. 


A  BROTHER.  197 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

A    BROTHER. 

THE  ladies  of  Barnet,  especially  the  young  and 
recently-married  ladies,  all  called  on  Tamsin. 
They  had  considered  the  matter  well.  It  was  a 
concession  not  so  much  to  her  altered  prospects  as 
to  the  Mills  family,  with  whom  she  was  staying. 
The  Millses  had  been  respectable  ever  since  Barnet 
was  a  town :  they  had  been  looked  up  to,  and 
would  probably  be  looked  up  to  while  time  en- 
dured. Tamsin  had  made  a  queer  though  ad- 
vantageous match.  She  might  prosper,  or  her 
new-found  glories  might  melt :  Barnet  knew 
nothing  about  that,  but  as  long  as  the  Millses 
countenanced  her  advancement  it  was  bound  to 
do  so. 

The  young  ladies  compared  their  impressions  of 
her :  they  had  known  absolutely  nothing  of  her  in 
her  former  state  except  an  old  shawl  and  a  pair 
of  cowhide  shoes  plodding  across  the  commons. 
Their  opinions  of  her  were  various :  one  was 
charmed  with  her,  but  another  despised  a  girl  who 
would  live  in  comfort  and  even  luxury  while  her 
family  struggled  in  poverty.  How  Tamsin  was  to 
17* 


CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

renovate  the  whole  Chenoworth  tribe  this  right- 
minded  critic  did  not  suggest.  Some  thought  she 
made  herself  ridiculous,  coming  back  where  her 
miserable  origin  was  known  ;  and  a  few  said  she 
was  a  Chenoworth,  and,  generally  speaking,  that 
was  enough  for  them  to  know.  Still,  outward 
deference  of  manner  was  not  wanting,  and  Aunt 
Sally  many  times  during  the  summer  put  on  her 
cream-colored  poplin,  which  gave  her  the  stately 
expansiveness  of  a  beautiful  white  elephant,  and 
went  with  Tamsin  hither  and  thither  to  tea  at 
houses  the  outside  of  which  had  formerly  been 
as  awful  as  temples  to  Chenoworth's  daughter. 
Sarah  Jane  stood  at  the  gate  to  watch  her  favored 
sister's  progress,  or  had  spies  out  along  the  pike 
to  report  where  Tamsin  had  been  most  recently 
honored,  and  Sarah  Jane's  sun-bonnet  made  fre- 
quent journeys  across  the  dog-pound  to  bu/.z  at 
Mary's  tired  ear  the  inequality  of  fortune.  Mary 
expected  no  more  good  in  the  world :  she  had 
long  ago  received  her  final  surprise.  But  Sarah 
Jane  was  of  opinion  that  if  Tamsin  Chenoworth 
was  even  the  ghost  of  a  sister  she  would  divide 
the  dwarf  up  in  some  way  among  the  family,  or 
make  him  at  least  demand  that  invitations  should 
be  extended  to  all  the  younger  branches. 

In  return  for  all  this  entertainment  Aunt  Sally 
gave  a  mighty  and  solemn  tea,  to  which  all  of  fe- 
male Barnet  drew  nigh  who  were  considered  within 


A   BROTHER. 

the  pale  of  society.  And  here  was  crowning  cause 
for  complaint.  Sarah  Jane  went  up  and  sat  in  the 
Mills's  kitchen  and  complained  to  the  cook.  Her 
feelings  were  so  outraged  she  wished  a  variety  of 
calamities  upon  her  sister.  That  Tamsin  had  not 
the  inviting  of -the  guests  was  a  fact  which  in  no 
wise  mollified  her;  that  Tamsin  might  be  wearied 
by  their  society  was  what  Sarah  Jane  could  not 
conceive  of.  There  sat  that  girl,  reared  like  a  god- 
dess above  her  own  kin  :  either  she  had  no  busi- 
ness in  her  position  or  the  Chenoworths  had  no 
business  in  theirs.  Sarah  Jane  was  in  the  liveliest 
sense  a  communist. 

Craque-o'-Doom's  letters  were  very  odd  and  de- 
lightful. He  wrote  about  nothing  but  his  adven- 
tures. He  enclosed  some  epistles  from  Rhoda 
Burns,  written  to  Tamsin  and  himself  both :  she 
had  a  great  many  clever  things  to  say  about  things 
abroad ;  and  these  two  remote  streams  flowed 
through  Tamsin's  mind,  clearing  it  of  a  great  deal 
of  perplexity.  Considering  herself  only  a  simple 
girl,  she  sometimes  pored  over  her  husband's  let- 
ters with  awe. 

Jennie  Mills  and  Louise  Latta,  with  a  following 
of  young  gentlemen  and  young  ladies,  came  down 
and  took  the  house  by  storm.  These  were  days 
of  immense  activity,  although  the  July  heats  were 
come.  There  was  a  lawn-party,  and  endless  games 
of  croquet,  rides,  a  little  languid  dancing,  and  a 


2QO  CRA  Q  UE-  O'-DO  OM. 

picnic,  in  which  Barnet  turned  out  all  its  muslin 
and  best  cake  and  came  home  soaked  with  the 
usual  thunder-shower.  It  was  about  this  time  that 
Captain  Mills  began  to  devote  himself  to  Tamsin. 
He  had  been  very  kind  to.  her  all  summer,  in  a 
guardian-like  way ;  but,  with  so  many  young  men 
around,  he  felt  it  his  duty,  as  the  elderly,  non- 
marrying  man  of  the  flock,  to  escort  Craque-o'- 
Doom's  young  wife.  The  young  men  in  round 
coats  and  straw  hats  were  not  inclined  to  neglect 
her;  they  had  heard  her  story  from  Jennie  and 
Louise ;  they  saw  her  and  approved  of  her.  But 
on  every  occasion  when  a  straw  hat  threw  itself 
down  to  fan  a  pleasant  heated  face  by  Tamsin's 
side,  Tom  Mills's  cooler,  smooth-shaven  counte- 
nance appeared  as  a  balance  of  power. 

Jennie  and  Louise  met  Tamsin  upon  their  own 
plane.  They  were  delighted  with  her,  and  bor- 
rowed half  her  things,  freely  bestowing  their  own 
upon  her  in  return.  This  house-stirring  had  a 
beneficent  influence  on  her.  All  her  girlish  spirits 
were  aroused.  She  talked,  and  waltzed,  and  played 
croquet.  Tom  Mills  frequently  stood  and  looked 
at  her.  Her  very  flesh  quivered  with  life:  she 
was  lovely  and  dangerous, — far  more  so  than  the 
lighter  girls :  they  could  charm,  but  she  had  an  in- 
dividuality which  could  entangle  itself  in  the  mi- 
nutest fibres  of  a  man's  nature.  Captain  Tom 
thought  this  dumbly,  feeling  a  sample  of  the  tingle 


A   BROTHER.  2OI 

himself.  It  caused  him  to  mutter  again,  "  Poor 
Craque-o'-Doom !"  and  thereafter  lose  himself  in 
astonishment  at  the  change  which  had  come  over 
his  compassion  for  his  friend.  On  the  occasion  of 
the  dwarf's  marriage  he  had  pitied  the  poor  fellow 
for  having  taken  a  wife  immeasurably  beneath  him: 
he  pitied  the  same  man  now  for  the  disadvantages 
which  must  hold  him  forever  beneath  this  beauti- 
ful wife. 

It  troubled  Tom  after  the  boys  and  girls  were 
gone.  He  smoked  a  great  many  cigars.  He  was 
a  hardened  old  bachelor  himself,  but  could  foresee 
how  it  would  end.  By  the  time  she  was  through 
school  she  would  be  ready  for  gay  society,  and 
gay  society  she  would  have.  No  dwarf  could 
deny  her  anything.  How  she  would  sail  and 
sparkle,  while  Craque-o'-Doom  ambled  slowly 
along  underneath,  watching  her  flight !  Just  when 
she  was  at  her  best,  somebody, — Tom  dreaded  to 
think  there  were  such  scoundrels, — but  some  fellow 
would  sever  the  last  thread  that  bound  her  to 
Craque-o'-Doom ;  then  these  new-fangled  notions 
about  divorce,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  darkness, 
trouble,  Craque-o'-Doom  desolated. 

But  she  seemed  very  happy  at  receiving  the 
dwarf's  letters ;  she  read  bits  of  them  to  Tillie, 
who  hung  around  her  constantly,  and  to  Captain 
Tom.  She  devoted  certain  days  to  writing,  and 
sent  out  large  packets. 


2Q2  CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

"  Distance  lends  enchantment,"  thought  the 
captain. 

Her  brother  came  home  from  jail,  and  made  the 
round  of  the  family  to  greet  everybody.  He  had 
not  a  prepossessing  countenance,  and  was  much 
soured  against  society.  The  poor  boy  knew  that 
things  had  gone  against  him,  and,  conscious  of 
guilt,  he  was  ready  for  new  mischief.  Tamsin  had 
seen  Sam  :  she  had  exchanged  salutations  with  all 
her  cousins,  including  Arter,  who  shambled  out 
of  her  way  as  quickly  as  he  possibly  could,  ex- 
pressing injury  in  every  line  of  his  slouch.  She 
had  sought  them  more  than  they  had  sought  her, 
though  she  felt  an  indifference  toward  them  which 
was  tinctured  with  no  feeling  but  pain.  But  Jess 
came  defiantly  to  see  her.  He  slammed  Mills's 
front  gate.  Sarah  Jane  was  with  him, — and  the 
least  liberal  guardian  of  Barnet  society  was  just 
leaving  the  house.  It  was  a  sultry  sunset.  Tam- 
sin was  languid  with  the  heat  of  the  day.  Aunt 
Sally  stood  in  the  shade,  talking  with  her  neigh- 
bor, and  Captain  Mills  had  just  sauntered  up  with 
his  cigar.  He  had  on  a  dressing-gown,  and  looked 
effeminate  in  the  eyes  of  Jess  Chenoworth. 

"  Here's  your  brother  come  to  see  you,"  said 
Sarah  Jane  aggressively  to  Tamsin.  "  He's  just 
as  good  as  them  that's  so  big-feelin',  if  he  has  been 
in  jail." 

The  neighbor  looked   upon  this  family  group 


A   BROTHER. 


203 


with  extreme  disfavor.  She  confined  her  remain- 
ing remarks  to  Aunt  Sally,  and,  after  listening  inci- 
dentally to  what  the  group  said,  went  away  and 
told  how  disgraceful  it  was. 

Tamsin  took  Jess's  hand  and  said,  "  How  do 
you  do  ?"  She  looked  pained.  Tom  Mills  ached 
at  the  sight  of  her  face. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  come  to  see  me,  so  I 
thought  I'd  come  to  see  you,"  said  Jess,  with  a 
hard  laugh  and  an  air  of  braving  it  out.  Yet  she 
had  a  certain  effect  upon  him  which  no  female 
relative  had  produced  before. 

"  You  ought  to  come,"  said  Tamsin.  "  I  ought 
to  see  you." 

"  He's  your  own  brother,"  repeated  Sarah  Jane, 
as  if  she  were  thrusting  the  fact  down  Tamsin's 
throat. 

"Yes,  he  is,"  said  Tamsin.  "Poor  boy!"  she 
added,  with  a  choke  in  her  voice. 

"  I  don't  want  no  water-works  turned  on,"  said 
Jess,  with  an  airy  wave  of  his  head.  "  The  women," 
he  remarked  to  Captain  Mills,  "  al'ays  takes  every 
excuse  they  can  for  cryin'." 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you,  Jess,"  said  Tom  Mills, 
turning  to  saunter  around  the  house  and  indicating 
that  he  wished  to  be  followed,  "  about  your  pros- 
pects." 

Jess  went  with  the  captain.  "  I  hain't  got  any 
prospecks,"  said  he  in  a  jocose  tone.  "  The' 


204  CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 

hain't  any  millionaire  been  runnin'  after  me  since 
I  come  out." 

"  There's  a  man,  not  exactly  a  millionaire,  but 
still  with  some  means,"  said  Tom,  as  they  mounted 
the  east  veranda  by  themselves,  "  who  offers  to 
give  you  a  handsome  start,  for  the  sake  of  your 
sister,  if  you  will  try  to  make  a  man  of  yourself." 

Tamsin  sat  on  the  door-step  in  silence.  Aunt 
Sally  had  gone  to  oversee  the  milking.  The  sun 
was  down,  but  the  burning  was  not  yet  drawn  out 
of  the  day.  Sarah  Jane  sat  on  the  lowest  step : 
her  sun-bonnet  was  in  her  lap,  but  her  aquiline 
face  was  overhung  with  shreds  of  hair.  Tamsin 
never  said  much  to  her,  but  seemed  to  overwhelm 
her  with  silence.  Sarah  Jane  had  broken  out  for 
a  minute  or  two  with  hysterical  complaints,  but 
the  black-eyed  sphinx  upon  the  top  step  was  ap- 
parently stone-cold  and  deaf  to  them.  "  You  don't 
seem  to  think  nothin'  of  your  own  folks,"  said 
Sarah  Jane;  "  everybody  else  is  more  account  to 
you  than  them  that's  kin, — only  Tillie.  You  don't 
act  with  no  natural  feelin's." 

The  upbraiding  might  have  passed  Tamsin's 
cheeks  like  the  evening  wind.  Her  hands  were 
folded  in  her  lap,  and  she  looked  steadily  down 
the  hill. 

Sarah  Jane  dug  her  shoe  into  the  gravel  at  the 
foot  of  the  step.  Dusk  sifted  thicker  and  thicker 
through  the  air,  and  finally  Jess  came  round  the 


A   BR OTHER.  2O5 

house,  and  the  sister  who  had  come  with  him  got 
up  and  joined  him.  "  Good-evenin',  Tarn,"  said 
Sarah  Jane  with  asperity. 

"  Good-evening,"  responded  Tamsin. 

Jess  paused,  with  his  hat  pulled  forward  and  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  "  That  was  toler'ble  clever 
of  your  man,"  he  said  to  Tamsin. 

"  What  was  ?" 

"  He's  goin'  to  stake  me  up  for  a  new  deal  at 
somethin'.  Tom  Mills  says  he  thought  I'd  turn 
out  first-rate  if  he  gave  me  a  start.  You  tell  him 
thanky,  will  ye?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Tamsin.  She  added  spontaneously, 
"  He  is  good." 

"  Consider'ble  better'n  some  whole  men  I've 
knowed,"  pronounced  Jess. 

"  I  bet  you  never  put  him  up  to  it,"  said  Sarah 
Jane  to  Tamsin. 

They  went  away  talking  in  an  eager,  sad  duet : 
the  eager  tones  were  Jess's,  the  plaintive  ones 
Sarah  Jane's. 

There  was  a  whippoorwill  singing  in  one  of  the 
large  trees  beside  the  drive.  The  gurgle  in  his 
throat  which  precedes  his  cry  could  be  distinctly 
heard.  The  barn-yard  calves  were  complaining 
of  their  evening  banishment  from  their  mothers, 
with  that  lonesome,  November-like  cadence  which 
always  suggests  thinning  trees  and  a  sharp  wind 
around  corners.  But  the  summer  night  was  deli- 

18 


CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 

cious  ;  it  did  not  even  lack  a  full  moon.  Far  down 
the  pike,  the  Barnet  brass-band  was  blaring  at 
great  Apollo  to  strike  the  lyre  ;  the  one  ice-cream 
saloon  was  doing  a  rushing  business,  for  a  great 
many  promenading  couples  made  the  evening  fes- 
tive. 

Aunt  Sally  saw  the  mantel-clock  point  to  nine, 
and  took  her  bed-room  candle.  "  Is  Tamsin  up- 
stairs, Thomas  ?"  she  inquired  as  she  passed  the 
small  library-door,  within  which  her  nephew  was 
smoking  in  the  moonlight. 

"  I  don't  know.     Probably  she  is." 

"  Be  sure  to  fasten  the  front  door  when  you  go." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Tom. 

With  Andrew  Jackson  Davis  under  her  arm  and 
her  candle  paling  in  the  moonlight,  Aunt  Sally 
went  up-stairs. 

When  Captain  Tom  had  smoked  his  cigar  out, 
he  got  up  and  sauntered  through  the  parlors,  giv- 
ing no  sign  of  what  was  in  his  mind  or  how  he 
meant  to  occupy  the  rest  of  the  evening.  In  the 
middle  of  the  front  parlor  he  stood  still.  "  Tam- 
sin," he  said,  with  an  indefinite  sting  of  pain  in  the 
word.  He  saw  her  lying  face  downward  on  a  sofa, 
her  white  dress  rising  and  falling  in  long  breaths 
around  the  shoulders.  She  stirred,  keeping  the 
back  of  one  hand  over  her  eyes.  "  What's  the 
matter  ?"  begged  Captain  Tom,  seating  himself  on 
a  chair  by  her  head.  He  rested  his  arm  on  the 


A   £R OTHER.  2O? 

back  and  leaned  toward  her  with  what  he  thought 
a  very  paternal  air.  "  What  are  you  crying  about 
here  alone?" 

For  answer  she  broke  into  a  fresh  sob. 

"  My  heavens !"  said  Tom,  with  a  pang  in  his 
breast.  "  Who  has  hurt  you  ?"  He  reassuringly 
took  the  hand  from  her  eyes  and  held  and  patted 
it.  It  was  warm  and  soft,  and  while  he  held  it  he 
began  to  tremble.  "  Can't  you  tell  me  ?"  he  mur- 
mured, modulating  his  voice  so  that  it  soundec] 
strange  to  himself.  "  Do  you  feel  badly  about 
your  brother  ?"  He  raised  her  to  a  sitting  posture 
and  saw  her  rested  comfortably  against  the  back 
of  the  sofa.  With  fatherly  care  he  put  a  footstool 
to  her  feet,  and  then  resumed  his  chair,  reaching 
for  her  hands  with  an  unaccountable  impulse  to 
draw  her  close  to  him. 

Tamsin  looked  into  his  kind  eyes  and  revealed 
a  new  phase  of  herself.  The  silent  stoic  and  the 
budding  young  lady  were  gone.  She  was  a  spirit 
struggling  with  the  problems  of  her  own  being, — 
but  a  very  pretty,  warm,  distracting  spirit,  con- 
scious or  unconscious  of  her  power.  "  I  never  did 
like  them,"  she  confessed.  "  I  can't  do  it.  Tillie 
is  the  only  one  who  seems  related  to  me.  It  is 
horrible  to  feel  so.  When  I  looked  at  him,  I 
thought  of  the  brothers  who  came  to  see  the  girls 
at  school.  I  should  like  to  have  a  brother  of  that 
kind.  He  makes  my  flesh  creep.  I  do  not  love 


2o8  CRA  QUE-O'-DO  OM. 

my  father  and  mother.  If  they  were  dead  I  could 
not  cry  one  true  tear.  If  Sam  and  Sarah  Jane  and 
all  the  rest — except  Tillie — were  to  die,  I  should 
not  miss  them  at  all." 

Tom  kept  patting  and  soothing  her  hand. 

"You  never  heard  of  anybody  that  way,  did 
you  ?"  inquired  Tamsin. 

"  Oh,  yes :  very  few  brothers  and  sisters  are  so 
closely  united  as  Tillie  and  you  are." 

"  But  why  don't  I  care  for  the  rest  of  them  ?" 

"  Natural  antagonism,"  explained  Captain  Tom. 
"  There  are  no  points  of  sympathy  between  you. 
You  are  as  different  as  if  you  came  of  other  blood. 
It  is  useless  to  make  yourself  unhappy  about  it." 

Tamsin  rested  against  the  back  of  the  sofa  and 
thought.  "  I  wish,"  she  said  sincerely,  "  that  I 
had  only  had  one  sister,  and  that  Tillie,  and  only 
one  brother,  and  that  you." 

Tom  Mills  started  up  and  walked  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room. 

Tamsin  looked  after  him :  "  Have  I  made  you 
mad  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  returning.  His  eyes  had  a 
singular  glow.  "  All  my  life  I  have  missed  my 
sister." 

"  It  would  have  been  so  nice,"  continued  Tarn- 
sin.  "  Before  Mr.  Sutton  came  I  used  to  want  to 
be  related  to  you,  and  after  he  came  I  wanted  it 
more  than  ever.  What  makes  your  hand  so  cold?" 


A   BROTHER.  2(X) 

"Is  it  cold?"  murmured  the  captain,  looking  at 
it  stupidly.  "  That  must  be  because  it  has  always 
missed  a  little  hand  like  this." 

"  I  used  to  watch  you,  and  be  afraid  of  you." 

"  Afraid  of  me  !     Why  ?" 

"  You  seemed  my  idea  of  a  gentleman  ;  and  I — 
What  was  I  ?" 

"  Always  a  rare  girl,  if  I  had  had  the  wit  to  notice 
it,"  said  Tom  with  some  bitterness. 

"  I  always  loved  to  be  here,"  still  ruminated 
Tamsin.  "  Why  can't  people  pick  their  relations  ? 
I  would  have  picked  you  from  the  very  start.  I 
hope  you  ain't  provoked  because  I  feel  so  ?" 

"  No — no — heaven  knows  !" 

"  Home  !"  her  eyes  wandered  around  the  moon- 
lit walls.  "And  I  never  could  help  calling  her 
Aunt  Sally ;  and  you — "  She  turned  her  eyes 
back  laughing  to  his  face. 

He  was  as  white  as  a  statue ;  his  jet  moustache 
added  ghastliness  to  his  face.  He  gripped  her 
hand  in  palm  and  fingers  which  were  jetting  with 
blood  hot  from  his  heart. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Tamsin,  startled, 
as  he  drew  himself  away  from  her  and  rose  up, 
turning  his  back. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Captain  Mills,  huskily. 

Almost  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  there  were 
feet  on  the  door-steps  and  feet  in  the  hall,  a  swish 
of  clothes,  the  cough  of  a  man,  the  sound  of  a 
o  18* 


2io  CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 

mellow  voice  which  made  Tom  Mills  want  to  stab 
himself,  and  of  Rhoda  Burns,  exclaiming,  "  Who 
is  in  here  having  such  a  remarkably  cosey  little 
tete-a-tete  that  carriages  rolling  up  and  people 
arriving  fail  to  disturb  it?" 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

TWO    MEN. 

TAMSIN  rose  and  met  the  party  with  agitation. 
She  kissed  Rhoda,  took  Mr.  Burns's  hand,  and,  last, 
stood  like  a  young  giantess  with  her  hands  in 
Craque-o'-Doom  's. 

Tom  made  a  great  stir  about  getting  lights.  But 
Neal  and  the  cook  were  out  making  calls,  and  the 
matches  eluded  him.  "  I  had  some  in  the  library 
a  little  while  ago,  but  don't  know  where  I  put 
them,"  said  he.  And  he  shook  hands  all  around 
the  group  with  a  manner  very  different  from  his 
usual  beneficent  one. 

"Never  mind  candles,"  said  Rhoda:  "they  just 
draw  bugs  to  bang  against  the  screens  or  sail  in  at 
the  door  and  land  down  your  back.  You  seemed 
to  be  getting  on  charmingly  without  illumination 
when  we  came  in." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tamsin.     "  I  hate  lights  in  summer. 


TWO  MEN.  211 

I  sat  on  the  step  till  long  after  the  moon  came 
up." 

Thought  Mrs.  Burns  to  herself,  "  I  wonder  how 
long  this  philandering  has  been  going  on?  And 
Tom  Mills,  of  all  men !  I  never  saw  him  look  so 
agitated.  Hasn't  she  a  particle  of  sense  ?  [.could 
shake  her!" 

They  were  grouped  in  seats,  in  and  out  of  the 
moonshine.  Rhoda  unfastened  her  hat  and  scarf; 
the  two  gentlemen  sat  with  their  hats  in  their 
hands. 

"  Did  you  send  your  carriage  to  the  stables  ?" 
inquired  Tom. 

"  I  didn't  bring  mine  this  time,"  said  Craque-o'- 
Doom.  "  We  came  in  a  conveyance  from  the  sta- 
tion. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burns  whirled  me  out  here 
without  any  warning." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rhoda  ;  "  we  stumbled  on  him  roast- 
ing in  New  York  City,  just  by  accident,  at  his 
favorite  hotel." 

"  It's  very  hot  in  town,"  remarked  Mr.  Burns. 
He  fanned  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  as  if  the 
recollection  overpowered  him. 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  in  Canada  for  the  sum- 
mer, Craque-o'-Doom  ?"  said  Tom. 

"  I  got  tired  of  it  sooner  than  I  did  last 
year." 

"  You  didn't  say  a  word  about  leaving  in  your 
last  letter,"  said  Tamsin.  She  had  resumed  her 


2 1 2  CRA  Q  UE-  &-D  O  OM. 

seat  on  the  sofa,  and  Rhoda  was  sitting  in  the  chair 
Tom  had  occupied. 

"  No ;  I  took  a  sudden  fancy  to  run  out  here. 
Then  I  changed  my  mind  and  sent  the  carriage 
back.  Then  I  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burns,  and  we 
concluded  to  make  a  flying  visit  to  Barnet  and 
take  you  back  with  us  to  the  sea-shore  for  the  rest 
of  the  summer." 

"  I  had  a  little  matter  of  business  West,"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Burns,  to  explain  his  concurrence  in 
such  eccentric  proceedings.  "  I  have  to  go  on  to 
Chicago." 

"  Don't  say  flying  visit,"  urged  Tom  in  a  nerve- 
less voice. 

"  Come  with  us  to  Svvampscott,  Tom,"  said 
Craque-o'-Doom.  And  Rhoda  turned  sharply 
round  and  looked  at  him.  "  Mr.  Burns  has  prom- 
ised us  as  much  time  as  he  can  spare  during  the 
rest  of  the  summer.  We  can  make  a  comfortable 
party." 

"  Fifth  wheel  to  a  coach,"  said  Tom.  "  Bach- 
elors are  always  in  the  way.  Louise  and  Jennie 
have  just  made  us  a  visit,"  he  continued,  address- 
ing Rhoda. 

"I  wish  they  had  extended  it;  only  we  might 
tax  your  aunt's  housekeeping  pretty  heavily.  You 
haven't  told  me  how  she  is,  or  even  noticed  that  I 
am  just  back  from  the  grand  tour." 

"  Oh,  Aunt   Sally  is   always  well,"  said  Tom. 


TWO   MEN. 


213 


"And  you  must  remember  I  am  just  a  provincial 
farmer,  blind  to  the  splendors  of  travel.  Provin- 
cial is  the  word,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Burns?" 

Mr.  Burns  laughed  and  rubbed  his  hands.  "  Yes, 
that's  the  word.  Pretty  good  sort  of  word  ;  but  I 
don't  like  it  myself.  I  don't  like  New  York  airs." 

"  I  do,"  said  Rhoda.  "  I  like  everything  that 
suggests  magnificence.  If  you  will  own  to  being 
provincial,  I  will  glory  in  being  cosmopolitan. 
We  have  had  sumptuous  times,  haven't  we,  Mr. 
Burns  ?" 

"  Very,"  he  responded. 

"  My  head  is  stuffed  full.  I  am  richer  by  a 
grand  division  and  many  hundred  years.  Is  that 
your  aunt  Sally  coming  down-stairs  ?" 

It  was  Aunt  Sally,  in  an  immense  wrapper. 
Her  light  sleep  had  been  broken.  She  welcomed 
everybody,  and  had  lights  burning  all  over  the 
house,  and  June-bugs  bumping  against  them,  and 
a  hearty  supper  set  out,  and  all  the  travellers' 
wants  attended  to,  before  the  minute-hand  on  the 
French  clock  had  passed  three  characters. 

"  Tamsin,"  said  Mrs.  Burns,  coming  into  her 
young  friend's  virgin  chamber  when  every  inmate 
was  supposed  to  be  retiring,  "  have  you  said  a  word 
to  Mr.  Sutton  this  evening?" 

"  Of  course  I  have."  Tamsin  had  a  downcast 
expression.  She  had  her  light  hair  around  the 
shoulders  of  a  very  pretty  tinted  peignoir,  and  was 


2 1 4  CRAQUE-  &-DOOM. 

brushing  industriously.  Rhoda  also  had  her  hail 
down  and  plied  a  vigorous  brush.  "  Do  you  think 
we  shall  really  go  to-morrow  ?" 

"  Of  course.     It's  time,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Then  I  wish  Tillie  had  stayed  here  to-night. 
She  has  slept  with  me  every  night  but  this  since  I 
came  back.  She  took  a  freak  to  stay  at  home  to- 
night." 

"  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  summer  ?" 

"  Oh,  such  a  pleasant  one !  I  have  had  her  with 
me  so  much.  The  other  day  we  went  out  to  the 
grave-yard,  and  sat  in  the  grass  and  talked  as  we 
used  to  do  when  we  were  children." 

"  Children !  what  are  you  now  ?"  sniffed  Mrs. 
Burns.  "  That  must  have  been  very  cheerful." 

"  It  was. — I  wish  she  was  here." 

"  Tamsin,"  said  Rhoda  boldly,  "  what  were 
you  and  Captain  Mills  doing  when  we  came 
in?" 

"  Doing  ?"  The  girl  raised  her  black  eyes  as  if 
with  a  sudden  effort  at  recollection.  "  Why,  talk- 
ing, of  course." 

"  What  tender  subject  occupied  you  ?" 

"  I  shan't  tell  you,"  replied  Tamsin,  after  turning 
the  matter  over  in  her  mind.  "  I  don't  have  to 
tell  everybody  how  I  feel." 

Rhoda  sat  down  by  her  and  put  a  hand  on  her 
lap.  The  girl's  eyes  met  hers  with  great  wistful- 
ness  :  the  oval  face  looked  so  innocent.  "  She  is 


TWO  MEX.  215 

the  slyest  flirt  I  ever  saw,"  thought  Rhoda,  "  or 
else  the  most  guileless  of  women." 

"  You  delicious  young  fiend !"  she  exclaimed, 
"  I  am  equally  divided  whether  to  shake  you  or 
fall  upon  you  and  devour  you  with  kisses.  Have 
you  been  making  fools  of  any  men  this  summer? 
Not  to  mince  matters,  have  you  transfixed  this 
silly  old  Tom  Mills,  with  his  white  poll  and  black 
moustache  and  years  of  what  ought  to  be  discre- 
tion ?" 

Tamsin  pushed  back  her  hair  and  flashed  a 
glance  at  Rhoda  which  was  actually  haughty. 
"  I'm  married  !"  she  said,  as  if  this  were  a  sufficient 
reminder. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  are ;  but  how  are  you  to 
realize  it,  living  as  you  do?  And  plenty  of  mar- 
ried women  flirt,  you  will  find  as  you  go  on." 

"  If  you  think  that,"  said  Tamsin,  retiring  an 
inch  from  Rhoda,  evidently  smarting  with  a  new 
sting  which  neutralized  the  old,  "  I  don't  care  what 
you  know.  My  brother  got  out  of— jail.  You 
don't  know  how  I  feel." 

"  My  dear !"  exclaimed  Rhoda  affectionately. 

"  I  wished  I  had  had  a  brother  like  Captain 
Mills.  He  has  always  been  a  nice  man.  I  want," 
she  burst  out  passionately,  "  I  do  want  nice  rela- 
tions !"  And,  turning  her  back  on  Rhoda,  she  hid 
her  head  in  a  pillow. 

Mrs.  Burns  was  about  to  begin  a  dissertation  on 


2i6  CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 

the  ridiculous  folly  of  that  platonism  between  the 
sexes  known  as  "  brothering"  and  "  sistering" 
each  other,  but  the  door  opened  without  warning, 
and  Tillie  came  in.  She  had  reached  the  front 
door  just  as  Aunt  Sally  was  herself  locking  it  for 
the  night.  Her  hair  was  damp  with  dew :  the 
odors  of  hay-fields  and  sweet  sod  were  suggested 
by  her  untrammelled  presence. 

"  I  couldn't  stay  away,  Tarn,"  said  the  child. 
She  gave  a  "  How  do  you  do  ?"  to  the  new  lady, 
and  huddled  on  the  bed  by  her  sister. 

"  They  are  a  couple  of  Phcebe-birds,"  thought 
Rhoda  as  she  retired.  "  I'm  not  half  as  brilliant 
in  the  management  of  human  nature  as  I  thought 
I  was." 

Meanwhile,  Captain  Tom  was  crouching  against 
the  mantel  in  Craque-o'-Doom's  room.  The  dwarf 
was  half  lying  on  the  bed,  with  a  pillow  under  his 
elbow.  "  Is  that  all  ?"  said  he. 

"  I  think  it's  enough,"  said  Tom.  "  I  give  you 
my  word  I  behaved  like  a  man  and  a  gentleman 
till  to-night.  I'm  growing  daft  in  my  mature  years. 
When  I  came  in  and  found  her  crying,  you  can't 
picture  my  sensations." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can." 

"  I  had  an  affair  once  that  I  thought  would  keep 
me  from  ever  thinking  of  a  woman  again." 

The  dwarf  looked  up  with  interest. 

"  She  died.     I  expected  to  live  a  bachelor,  and 


TWO  MEN. 


217 


have  never  since  thought  of  myself  as  a  marrying 
man.  It  sounds  odd  :  I  don't  speak  of  it,  for  people 
would  consider  it  ridiculous.  I  can  see  how  I  came 
to  make  such  an  ass  of  myself  to-night.  All  sum- 
mer this  one  has  been  thrown  on  my  care ;  I 
watched  her,  and  studied  her,  and  grew  to  her,  as 
you  might  say." 

"  Yes ;  that's  where  I  was  wrong.  It  was  my 
fault,"  said  the  dwarf. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  had  such  a  weak  spot?" 
continued  Tom.  "  Throw  the  blame  on  me,  where 
it  belongs.  All  at  once  I  came  upon  her  sobbing 
as  if  her  heart  would  break, — I  know  all  her  draw- 
backs—  Oh,  heavens!  how  a  man's  heart  will 
yearn !" 

"  Yes,  how  it  will  yearn !"  breathed  the  dwarf, 
covering  his  face  with  hands  which  had  grown 
almost  gaunt. 

"So  I  said,  and  did  what  I  told  you,  and  half 
compromised  her  in  your  eyes  and  the  eyes  of  the 
other  two." 

When  the  dwarf  had  been  silent  a  minute  he 
seemed  to  have  collected  his  forces,  and  said, 
"Tom,  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  saying  I  think 
of  her  and  not  of  you  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  What  consideration  do  I 
merit?" 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow,  and  I  have  liked  you 
well,  and  taxed  your  friendship  more  than  I  ought 
K  19 


2i8  CRAQUE-0--DOOM. 

to  have  done.  But,  Tom,  I  could  willingly  stran- 
gle you  where  her  happiness  is  involved.  The 
great  question  with  me  is,  Does  she  love  you  ?" 

"  No,  she  doesn't.     Of  course  not." 

"Tom,  she  has  known  you  all  her  life.  You 
were,  as  she  said,  her  idea  of  a  gentleman.  Be- 
sides, you  are  a  man  to  match  with  a  beautiful, 
perfectly-made  woman.  What  am  I  ?  A  twist  of 
nature,  a  man-monkey,  whose  most  dignified  ges- 
ture is  ridiculous.  I  have  been  struggling  against 
the  tide.  I  have  believed  it  possible  for  her  to  care 
for  me  :  I  don't  believe  it  any  more.  Why,  her  re- 
pugnance overcame  her  so  she  ran  from  me,  once  ! 
Her  affections — and  they  are  strong  in  proportion 
to  the  narrow  scope  they  take — are  bound  around 
this  place  and  you.  You  must  take  her;  and,  by 
God !  if  you  ever  make  her  unhappy  I  will  shoot 
you  with  my  own  hands !" 

"  Old  fellow,  you  can  shoot  me  and  welcome.  I 
couldn't  feel  much  worse  than  I  do.  But  exercise 
a  little  common  sense.  One  man  doesn't  marry 
another  man's  wife  in  this  country,  no  matter 
how  much  he  may  have  courted  her,"  the  captain 
sneered  down  at  himself. 

"  She  isn't  any  more  my  wife  than  she  is  yours. 
I  gave  her  the  protection  of  my  name  and  guar- 
dianship, and  she's  nothing  but  my  ward.  In  these 
days  it  won't  be  hard  to  cut  the  slim  legal  tie  which 
binds  us  together.  You  may  remember  I  mentioned 


TWO  MEN. 


219 


some  such  possible  emergency  when  I  first  spoke 
about  taking  her.  You  can  marry  her  and  make 
her  happy.  If  any  odium  attaches  to  her,  it  will 
be,  like  the  rest  of  her  drawbacks,  her  misfortune 
and  not  her  fault.  Confound  you  !  why  didn't  you 
think  of  giving  her  a  chance  ?" 

"  Why  didn't  I  ?  I'm  a  pretty  kind  of  a  fellow 
for  a  man  to  resign  in  favor  of,  ain't  I  ?  Now,  you 
listen  to  me :"  Tom  approached  and  sat  on  the 
bed.  "  You're  working  yourself  to  a  high  pitch  for 
nothing." 

"Are  you  going  to  say  you  wouldn't  have  her?" 
Craque-o'-Doom's  eyes  narrowed  themselves  to 
fierce  gray  slits. 

"  Have  her  ?  you  don't  want  to  make  a  fool  of 
yourself,  asking  me  that?  I  tell  you,  she  crept  in 
on  me  unawares.  You  ought  to  slap  my  face  for 
it,  but  I  love  her.  A  man  can't  say  more  than 
that,  if  he's  a  man  with  red  blood  in  his  body. 
What  does  a  man  generally  want  to  do  when  such 
a  thing  happens  to  him  ?  But  she  wouldn't  have 
me,  even  if  all  was  fair  and  open.  She  was  as  cool 
as  a  mermaid.  She  thinks  I'm  a  good  old  fellow — 
trustworthy  in  the  main — and  would  make  a  cred- 
itable relation  ;  and  that's  all  she  thinks  about  me." 

"  You  held  her  hands  ?"  said  Craque-o'-Doom. 

"  Yes,  and  she  wondered  that  mine  were  cold 
and  trembling,  and  was  as  much  moved  as  if  I 
had  been  my  aunt  Sally." 


22O  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

"  But  she  didn't  run  from  you  ;  she  confided  in 
you." 

"  Yes,  I  happened  to  be  handy  when  she  was  in 
a  troubled  mood.  Now,  don't  take  this  matter 
with  so  much  confounded  seriousness :  I  have 
been  a  fool,  and  have  got  to  smart  many  a  day 
for  my  folly.  She  is  an  innocent  child  who  has 
been  drawn  into  an  absurd  situation  without  reali- 
zing it.  That's  all  there  is  about  it." 

"  Tom,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom,  still  pursuing  his 
own  train  of  thought,  "  come  down  to  Swampscott 
with  us." 

Captain  Tom  laughed,  but  looked  at  him  sadly: 
"  I'm  going  to  start  for  the  Pacific  coast  as  soon 
as  you  folks  are  gone." 

"What  for?" 

"  For  medicine.  I've  meant  to  go  a  long  time, 
and  this  furnishes  the  occasion." 

"  Will  your  aunt  go?" 

"  If  I  can  persuade  her.  I  think  she  has  some 
relations  in  San  Francisco, — a  brother-in-law's 
family.  We've  often  talked  of  the  trip,  and  there's 
no  time  like  the  present." 

"  Tom,  bless  you,  old  fellow !"  said  Craque-o'- 
Doom.  After  a  space  he  added,  "  I  owe  you  this 
much,  anyhow.  If  there's  a  turn  in  my  favor 
within  six  months,  I'll  let  you  know  by  telegraph  ; 
if  there  isn't  by  the  end  of  that  time,  we'll  meet 
somewhere  and  settle  the  thing." 


TWO   MEN.  221 

"  That's  all  nonsense !"  said  Tom.  "  Don't  talk 
so  crazy,  boy.  You've  changed  since  last  year." 

"Yes,  I  have.  I  can't  stand  this  much  longer. 
It  has  been  a  hard  mill.  A  lifetime  of  prepara- 
tion for  a  lonely  middle  and  old  age  has  been  de- 
stroyed in  a  few  months.  I  had  no  idea  this  sort 
of  feeling  could  work  on  a  man  so." 

"  I'd  better  say  good-night,"  said  Captain  Tom. 

"  Well,  good-night." 

The  two  men  did  an  unpremeditated  thing. 
Opening  their  arms,  they  hugged  one  another  for 
one  silent  instant,  and  then  parted,  half  shame- 
faced. 


222  CJtA  Q  U&-  V-DO  OM. 


CHAPTER      XXIII. 

"  PLACE    HANDS." 

THE  party  started  next  afternoon,  and  again 
Tillie  stood  on  the  platform  beside  Captain  Mills. 
Her  father  had  refused,  with  the  stubbornness  of 
an  unreasonable  old  man,  to  let  her  go  with  Tam- 
sin  for  even  a  month's  stay  beside  the  water. 
Tillie  took  occasion  this  time  to  very  scantily 
commend  the  dwarf.  "  You're  a  pretty  nice  kind 
of  a  feller,"  she  said,  looking  into  his  face  with  un- 
terrified  eyes.  They  stood  quite  on  a  level  when 
he  had  his  hat  on. 

"  I  thank  my  little  sister  for  that,"  he  replied, 
with  a  bow, — which  caused  Tillie  to  put  her  hand 
before  her  mouth  and  laugh  and  take  some  unseen 
confidante  into  the  joke  :  "  Ho  !  he  called  me  his 
little  sister !" 

Tamsin  stood  on  the  back  platform  and  ex- 
changed signals  with  the  lank  light  child  until 
what  had  been  Tillie  became  a  mere  speck  beside 
a  toadstool  station  and  then  went  out  in  the  dazzle 
of  the  afternoon  sun. 

The  dwarf's  party  found  but  an  uncanny  coast 
when  they  arrived  at  his  summer  cottage.  There 


"PLACE  HANDS." 

was  no  storm,  but  a  sullen  fit  of  rainy  weather  set 
in,  stinging  the  sea  with  perpetual  javelins,  the 
handles  of  which  barred  distant  views.  The  east 
wind  prevailed,  and  they  had  two  dismal  August 
weeks,  soaked  with  fog,  very  salt,  wherein  the 
roar  of  the  sea  only  tempted  man  to  suicide.  It 
was  too  chilly  to  bathe ;  there  were  no  chances  to 
make  excursions ;  fires  could  not  drive  out  the 
dampness.  A  great  many  nice  people  in  cottages 
round  about  rolled  themselves  up  in  rugs  and  hi- 
bernated, while  others  prepared  to  go  back  to  town 
a  full  month  earlier  than  usual. 

Craque-o'-Doom  tried  a  piano  he  had  in  the 
house,  but  the  strings  were  all  rusted ;  it  was 
horribly  out  of  tune.  Instead  of  seeking  the 
society  of  the  ladies,  he  stayed  a  great  deal  by 
himself,  pressing  and  classifying  sea-weeds  which 
his  man  brought  him  from  the  sand, — a  tall  ser- 
vant, who  went  and  came  under  an  umbrella  and 
looked  as  if  life  were  not  worth  living  when  the 
umbrella  occasionally  turned  wrong  side  out. 

Rhoda  wrote  letters  to  her  husband  in  Chicago, 
and  was  in  a  craze  over  house-furnishing.  Tamsin 
sat  with  her  before  the  fire,  holding  a  book,  and 
they  had  long  woman-talks,  which  began  and 
ended  nowhere  and  were  like  the  foam  left  by  the 
out-crawling  tide, — they  only  marked  the  hours. 
"  I  never  saw  such  weather,"  said  Rhoda,  "  or 
knew  the  fall  to  threaten  so  early.  The  papers 


224  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 

say  it  is  just  as  bad  inland,  and  clear  out  West. 
We  had  better  pick  up  and  leave.  Mr.  Sutton  is 
moping  himself  to  death.  Don't  you  see  he  is  ?" 

"  He  looks  paler  than  he  did  last  spring,"  said 
Tamsin.  She  fixed  her  black  eyes  seriously  on 
the  fire.  "  He  studies  a  great  deal.  All  the  time 
he  is  learning  something  new." 

"  His  health  may  be  failing,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  Why,  how  can  that  be?"  exclaimed  Tamsin. 
"  He  never  has  a  doctor.  He  is  not  sick." 

"  He  is  not  particularly  well,"  said  Rhoda  sagely. 
"  Men  have  the  instincts  of  wild  creatures  when 
anything  ails  them  :  they  mope  by  themselves  and 
'  act  injured."' 

There  came  a  day  on  which  the  sun  showed  a 
watery  eye  and  the  sea  looked  a  shade  lighter. 

"  Maybe  we  can  go  somewhere  to-day  without 
getting  soaked,"  exclaimed  Tamsin. 

Craque-o'-Doom  handed  her  a  letter  from  the 
package  the  tall  servant  brought  in  :  "  And  here's 
a  letter  from  Tillie,  too." 

It  was  Mary's  hand,  of  course.  Mary  was 
Tillie's  amanuensis.  Craque-o'-Doom  examined 
his  mail,  and  Rhoda  was  tearing  the  wrappers 
from  hers.  Neither  of  them  observed  her  eyes 
dilate  or  her  free  hand  lift  and  clinch  itself. 
"  Oh  !"  she  cried,  "  oh ! — oh  ! — oh  !"  each  scream 
becoming  more  piercing.  "She  is  dead —  They 
have  buried  her  in  the  ground !"  So,  tottering 


PLACE   HAXDS." 


225 


toward  the  dwarf,  Tamsin  fell  down  with  her  arm 
across  his  knees.  She  had  not  fainted.  They  got 
her  up,  and  she  sat  ghastly  and  shaking  in  a  large 
chair.  Craque-o'-Doom  rubbed  her  hands,  while 
Rhoda  bathed  her  face.  Her  screams  still  rang 
through  the  house,  though  they  told  her  it  could 
not  be  true,  and  the  man  whose  heart  she  pierced 
talked  wildly  to  her. 

Tamsin  was  like  a  giantess  in  her  grief.  She 
pushed  her  comforters  aside  and  writhed  about  the 
room,  supported  by  Rhoda  against  her  will,  with 
her  hair  streaming  around  her  face.  Craque-o'- 
Doom  huddled  at  the  chimney-side,  straightening 
the  letter  out  and  trying  to  read  it.  He  felt  numb, 
and  so  widely  separated  from  her  now  that  he 
dared  not  offer  her  one  word.  Rhoda  got  her  to 
her  own  room,  and  was  busy  over  her  for  a  long 
time.  Finally,  Craque-o'-Doom  looked  up,  aware 
that  Rhoda  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  pale  and 
troubled  in  expression.  "  It  must  be  true,"  said 
he,  indicating  the  paper  he  held.  "  What  can  I 
do?  I  feel  dazed." 

"  Yes,  it's  true.  From  what  she  has  been  re- 
peating over  and  over  I  know  the  contents  of  the 
letter.  It's  come  upon  her  in  the  cruellest  way." 

"  Is  she  any  better  ?" 

"  She's  unconscious,  and  will  be  better.  I  have 
her  under  the  influence  of  chloral." 

"  I'd  better  telegraph  to  some  responsible  per- 


226  CRAQUE-CP-DOOM. 

son  in  Barnet,"  said  the  dwarf.  "  Tom  and  his 
aunt  are  gone.  If  they  had  been  there  it  wouldn't 
have  come  to  her  in  this  way." 

"  No,  indeed,"  affirmed  Rhoda. 

"  You  see  I  can't  shield  her  from  a  single 
trouble."  His  head  dropped  on  his  breast. 
"  She'll  hate  me.  Sometimes  I  think  it  was  for 
Tillie— " 

"  Don't  say  it,"  entreated  Rhoda,  putting  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  "  After  you  send  this  telegram, 
I  think  you  had  better  have  treatment  similar  to 
Tamsin's  and  go  to  bed." 

"  If  you  will  take  care  of  her,"  he  said  with 
quick  resolution,  "I  will  go  to  Barnet  myself,  and 
if  they  won't  let  me  bring  the  body  away,  I  may 
pick  up  some  kind  of  consolation  for  her." 

"  Don't  you  do  it.  Was  there  ever  such  a  man !  I 
wish  Mr.  Burns  were  here,  to  make  you  be  quiet." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  quiet.  You'll  let  me  know 
if  she  falls  ill,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  she  won't  be  seriously  sick :  she's 
strong.  It's  the  effect  of  the  shock." 

"  If  I  could  have  seen  the  letter  first,  and  pre- 
pared her." 

"  Yes,  if  you  could  surround  her  by  a  medium 
through  which  no  pain  could  pass, — if  you  could 
make  an  out-and-out  goddess  of  her.  Mr.  Sutton, 
Claude  Melnottes  are  charming  on  the  stage,  but 
in  real  life  they  are  painful." 


"PLACE  HANDS."  22? 

"  Grotesque,  you  mean,  in  my  shape.  Well, 
good  friend,  don't  mind  me." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Rhoda  in  her  turn 
picked  up  Mary  Chenoworth's  letter.  It  was 
brief  enough,  written  in  a  delicate,  half-formed 
hand,  and  frequently  misspelled  : 

"  DEAR  SISTER  I  take  up  my  pen  to  tell  you 
death  has  Entered  since  you  left  Tillie  died  the 
day  befour  yesterday  and  we  buried  her  to-day 
She  got  sore  Throat  after  you  left  and  it  run  on  to 
Dipthery  the  weather  being  so  bad  that  the  first 
thing  I  knowed  they  sent  for  me  Tillie  is  dying 
She  died  very  easy  at  the  last  though  Suffering 
much  before  and  she  wanted  you  Sary  Jane  said 
the  Whole  time  Pap  sayed  they  did  not  know 
where  to  Write  to  you  for  sertain  and  nobody 
thout  she  would  die  She  plaid  her  cordeon  the 
very  day  she  died  the  deer  Innocent  the  very  last 
Thing  she  done  was  to  slick  her  piller  and  whisper 
Place  Hands 

"  You  must  excuse  my  writing  I  ain't  the  scribe 
I  used  to  be  and  my  eyes  ache  and  Smart 

"  Tamsin  I  wish  he  had  let  her  go  with  you  It 
mite  not  have  happened  but  God  knows  Jess  is 
doing  reel  well  now  We  buried  her  in  her  White 
dress  you  give  her  O  Tamsin  i  know  what  your 
Feeling  will  be  for  she  was  deer  to  you 

"  Respectfuly  your  sister,  MARY," 


228  CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 

Tamsin  woke  in  the  night  and  sobbed  with  her 
first  conscious  breath.  A  night-lamp  was  shaded 
near  her  head.  She  heard  the  boom  of  the  sea, 
and  her  imagination  threw  up — like  a  mirage  over 
her  trouble — a  vision  of  schooners  poised  on  the 
water  as  if  it  were  a  wall  hemming  in  the  land. 

Rhoda  appeared  beside  her  as  soon  as  she  made 
a  sound,  changed  the  cloths  on  her  head,  and  said, 
"  My  dear,  you  must  take  another  spoonful  of  this 
liquid." 

Tamsin  took  it  and  looked  all  about  the  room 
with  her  heavy  eyes. 

"  He's  gone,"  said  Rhoda. 

The  patient  seemed  to  drag  her  eyes  to  her 
nurse's  face.  "Where?" 

"  To  Ohio.  To  do  anything  he  can  that  will  be 
a  comfort  to  you." 

"  I  wanted,"  said  Tamsin,  swooning  under  the 
strong  sleeping-mixture,  "  I  wanted — " 


"YOU  OUGHT  TO   KNOW:1 


229 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

"YOU   OUGHT    TO    KNOW." 

IT  was  full  two  weeks  afterward  that  the  dwarf 
sat  at  home  before  a  library-table  covered  with 
books  and  papers.  He  did  indeed  seem  lost  in 
the  square,  stately  room.  There  was  hardly  a  stir 
of  life  about  the  premises.  From  his  windows  he 
could  see  the  hills  standing  as  companions  to  him 
in  that  dear  fellowship  hills  always  extend  toward 
us,  and  a  blue  corner  of  the  North  River  across 
which  a  long  tow  of  barges  and  flats  was  moving 
up-stream.  The  afternoon  was  nearly  gone : 
Craque-o'-Doom  worked  as  if  bent  on  accomplish- 
ing a  certain  task  in  a  limited  time.  His  temples 
were  sunken :  the  luminous  quality  of  his  com- 
plexion had  never  been  so  apparent.  His  feet 
rested  on  a  very  high  hassock  under  the  table, 
and  perhaps,  with  his  mind  absorbed  by  the  prob- 
lems which  occupy  higher  grades  of  intellect,  he 
forgot  during  half  an  hour  that  he  was  not  as 
other  men. 

H°  had  come  directly  home  from  Barnet  instead 
of  going  back  to  Tamsin,  and  asked  no  explana- 
tion of  himself  for  doing  so.  She  was  to  enter 
30 


230  CRA  Q  V£-  O'-DO  OM. 

school  the  first  week  in  September.  Mrs.  Burns 
stayed  on  with  her,  and  reported  frequently  to  him, 
encouraging  him  to  think  that  time  would  rapidly 
heal  the  grief  of  such  a  young  creature. 

From  Tamsin  he  got  no  message  at  all.  But  he 
had  written  her  a  long  letter  full  of  the  minutest 
items  concerning  Tillie.  Old  Mr.  Chenoworth  had 
not  allowed  him  to  remove  the  body:  he  had 
therefore  ornamented  that  plot  in  Barnet  grave- 
yard with  everything  he  could  devise.  He  had 
ordered  a  small  monument,  and  drawn  the  design 
himself, — the  child's  accordion,  with  a  branch  of 
wild-brier  thrown  across  it, — and  he  enclosed  a 
draft  of  it  to  Tamsin.  He  had  even  been  woman- 
ish enough  to  pick  some  clay  from  Tillie's  hillock 
before  it  was  sodded  and  send  that.  All  the  kind 
things  the  neighbors  had  to  say  about  the  child's 
last  days  were  retailed  by  him,  and  her  mother's 
account  was  minutely  repeated.  He  had  nothing 
to  say,  however,  of  the  inconveniences  and  painful 
curiosity  he  had  had  to  encounter  in  that  small 
place,  without  a  friend  or  acquaintance,  while  gath- 
ering these  consolations  for  her,  or  of  the  cruel 
stupidity  of  her  family,  and  the  general  opinion 
that  they  had  let  the  child  die  from  ignorant  neg- 
lect. He  did  not  tell  her  that  her  father  had  com- 
fortably reckoned  "  he  hadn't  no  money  to  waste 
in  such  tomfoolery,"  when  asked  why  he  did  not 
telegraph  for  Tamsin.  Neither  did  he  mention 


"YOU  OUGHT   TO  KNOW."  23! 

Sarah  Jane's  criticism  of  the  accordion  and  brier 
branch  and  her  loud  preference  for  a  little  lamb  on 
the  monument,  such  as  most  well-to-do  Barnet 
families  displayed  on  their  children's  mortuary  tab- 
lets. He  spared  her  the  news  that  Jess,  perhaps 
overcome  by  the  family  bereavement,  had  broken 
bounds  again  and  was  out  of  prison  on  the  dwarf's 
bail,  determined  to  go  West  when  he  got  through 
with  his  last  difficulty,  and  find  more  scope  or 
something  worse.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  did 
not  forget  Mary's  tearful  recital,  and  he  beautified 
her  in  her  humble  state.  He  had  talked  with 
Mary  in  her  own  house,  while  her  tow-headed 
children  peeped  round  the  door-post  at  him  and 
dared  one  another  to  approach  nearer.  Never  in 
her  life  had  she  felt  herself  so  appreciated  or 
touched  the  edge  of  a  human  soul  that  could  so 
widen  the  world  for  her. 

The  dwarf  had  agreed  with  Mrs.  Burns  that 
Tamsin  must  go  back  to  school  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble :  her  mind  ought  to  be  occupied. 

But,  if  any  of  these  things  rose  to  the  surface 
of  his  thoughts,  he  pushed  them  under.  Some 
wagons  rattled  along  the  road,  and  he  heard  the 
five-o'clock  train  from  New  York  roaring  at  the 
base  of  the  hills.  Through  open  windows  came 
in  that  sun-soaked  smell  of  grass  and  shrubs  which 
seems  to  be  their  grateful  offering  for  a  fine  day. 
This  was  a  very  handsome,  comfortable,  dull  old 


232  CRAQUE-0-DOOll. 

place.  Now  a  shutter  cracked  sharply,  —  it  is 
strange  how  many  sympathetic  noises  there  are  in 
wood, — as  if  uttering  an  exclamation  of  relief  that 
the  sun  no  longer  blistered  it ;  and  now  the  double 
gates  at  the  end  of  the  avenue  clicked,  and  the 
gardener  probably  moved  away  through  the  grass 
to  his  tool-house. 

There  were  a  great  many  neighbors  bound  to 
the  dwarf  by  old  family  ties,  but,  living  by  him- 
self, he  had  few  visitors.  It  was  with  some  amaze- 
ment, therefore,  after  being  startled  by  these  various 
hints  of  outside  life,  that  he  looked  up  and  saw  a 
woman  coming  into  the  room  from  the  outer  hall. 
But,  when  the  face  became  Tamsin's,  the  air  thick- 
ened before  his  eyes,  and  he  did  not  speak  a 
word. 

Tarn  sin  approached  the  table.  She  was  in  black 
clothes :  her  eyes  looked  sunken,  yet  the  livid 
spaces  around  them  brought  out  their  power  the 
more.  She  halted,  then  came  on,  resting  her  hand 
on  the  table  as  she  had  done  the  night  they  first 
met.  And  the  dwarf  looked  at  her  without  having 
a  word,  until  it  seemed  to  him  an  eternity  passed 
between  them.  "  I've  come,"  said  Tamsin.  And 
she  still  looked  at  him  with  that  in  her  eyes 
which  made  his  pulses  all  seem  beating  in  his 
head. 

"  Yes,"  he  finally  uttered.  "  Sit  down,  my  child. 
You  may  take  this  chair."  He  pushed  it  back 


"YOU  OUGHT  TO  KNOW."  233 

from  the  table  and  held  to  the  arms.  "  I'm  dizzy," 
said  the  dwarf.  "  These  papers  have  bothered 
me."  So  he  remained  seated,  and  Tamsin  stood 
still,  folding  corners  of  his  manuscript  over  and 
over. 

"  Did  you  come  alone?"  he  inquired. 

"  Yes  :  Mrs.  Burns  has  gone  home.  She  left  me 
at  school." 

"  And  how  did  you  get  here  from  the  station  ?" 

"  I  asked  the  way  and  walked." 

"  Sit  down ;  sit  down  here."  The  dwarf  drew 
out  the  hassock,  and  Tamsin  sat  down,  literally  at 
his  feet. 

He  unfastened  her  hat  and  wrap  and  laid  them 
on  the  table  and  began  taking  off  her  gloves : 
"  Crape  from  head  to  foot.  How  unhappy  my 
little  one  is !  So  many  times  I  have  thought  what 
your  coming  to  this  house. would  be;  and  you 
come  alone,  without  any  glad  welcome,  to  the 
man  who  has  failed  to  make  you  happy !  You  got 
the  letter  and  the  little  box?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  there  anything  else  on  earth  that  I  can  do  ?" 

"  Yes,"  burst  passionately  from  her  lips  :  "  yes, 
there  is." 

"  Tell  me  what." 

The  young  creature  bent  her  head  forward  and 
rested  it  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  She  looked  very 

young  and  dependent     "  I  can't,"  she  said. 
20* 


234  CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 

Craque-o'-Doom  lifted  her  face  up,  saying 
sternly,  "  You  must !" 

Tamsin  began  to  cry.  She  was  so  weak  that 
her  sobs  became  hysterical  cries,  and  the  dwarf 
was  in  a  frenzy.  He  reached  for  his  table-bell : 
"  You  must  have  something.  They  ought  to  bring 
you  some  food." 

"  I  don't  want  it.  I  can't — can't — can't  stand 
this !"  With  a  shaking  hand  he  smoothed  her 
hair  back  from  her  burning  forehead  and  rested 
her  against  his  arm  until  she  grew  quieter.  Gradu- 
ally her  head  dropped  backward  and  she  fixed  her 
eyes  on  his :  "  Before  Tillie  died  I  could  stand  it. 
She  loved  me  so  much,  and  I  had  so  many  things 
to  learn.  Now  I  can't  stand  it.  You  have  been 
better  than  an  angel  to  me.  You  have  done  every- 
thing kind." 

"  Speak  out,"  said  Craque-o'-Doom,  his  ears 
ringing  with  strange  noises. 

"  I  can't !  I  never  could  talk.  But — "  She 
pressed  her  palms  together  in  supplication. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  said  the  dwarf  slowly,  seeming 
to  expand  while  he  spoke,  "  that  you  want  to  stay 
here  with  me  ?" 

Her  face  steeped  itself  in  color. 

"  Oh,  Tamsin  !  What  makes  you  tremble,  little 
one  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  whispered  piteously,  reach- 
ing her  hands  toward  his  shoulders ;  "  do  you  ?" 


"YOU  OUGHT  TO  KNOW."  235 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life -he  held  his  wife 
against  his  face  and  breast.  The  throbbing  of  her 
pulses  talked  to  him.  They  told  him  she  was 
young  and  proud  and  full  of  virgin  timidity ;  but 
they  also  told  him  another  secret,  which  never  let 
him  doubt  his  possession  of  her  again.  "  Is  it 
possible,"  he  said,  breaking  the  silence  of  the  room, 
"  that  henceforward  this  lonesome  house  will  be 
full  of  you  ?  Is  it  possible  that  in  spite  of  my 
deformity  you  love  me  ?" 

"  You  ought  to  know,"  said  Tatnsin.  "  Didn't 
I  marry  you  ?  It  was  from  the  very  first.  I  never 
cared  for  anybody  but  Tillie  before.  But  you 
wanted  me  just  to  improve  myself.  And  I  acted 
so  foolish  about  things."  She  dropped  brief  sen- 
tence after  sentence,  sometimes  catching  her  voice 
in  her  throat.  A  listener  two  yards  away  could 
not  have  distinguished  the  words.  "  When  I  car- 
ried that  coffee  into  your  room,  you  seemed  differ- 
ent from  all  the  people  I  ever  dreamed  of.  Some- 
times I  have  been  very  mad  and  very  hurt.  You 
would  go  off  other  places  where  you  could  not  see 
me.  Then  I  would  act  as  if  I  did  not  care.  What 
was  I,  compared  to  a  man  like  you  ?  I  was  a  poor 
miserable  girl.  If  I  had  been  related  to  the  Millses 
I  shouldn't  have  felt  so  badly.  You  were  better 
to  father's  than  I  ever  was.  You  aren't  like  I  am. 
I'll  try  to  be  better.  I'll  try  for  Tillie's  sake.  Tillie 
knew.  I  told  her  in  her  ear  one  night  when  I  was 


236  CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 

crying.  The  little  dear  hugged  me.  Once  Mrs. 
Burns  was  saying  it  was  such  a  good  match  for 
me.  She  made  me  feel  sick.  I  began  to  tell  her 
—but  I  couldn't." 

The  dwarf  kept  smoothing  her  head  with  a 
gloating  leonine  touch.  He  scarcely  noticed  that 
he  wa^  doing  so.  His  eyes  brooded  over  her  with 
that  expression  of  blessing  which  we  see  in  the 
eyes  of  pictured  saints.  "  But  isn't  my  deformity 
ever  repulsive  to  you,  my  darling?" 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  about  that." 

"  Such  excuses  for  legs,  that  lower  me  in  the 
world  almost  among  creeping  things." 

Tamsin  looked  indignant.  "  You  seem  real 
tall,"  she  said. 

"  Do  I  seem  tall  to  you  ?  Haven't  you  felt  like 
laughing  at  me  when  I  waddled  about,  looking 
as  if  my  body  had  been  telescoped  in  a  railroad 
accident,  for  instance  ?  You  can't  enjoy  gazing 
down  a  couple  of  feet  or  so  on  your  husband  and 
overhearing  remarks  which  may  be  made  at  any 
time." 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  say,"  his  wife  exclaimed 
in  a  candid  gush  of  words.  "  It's  because  they  want 
you  themselves  and  can't  get  you,  or  don't  know 
how  to  appreciate  a  man.  I  think  you're  beau- 
tiful !" 

Craque-o'-Doom  laughed  so  heartily  and  so 
long  that  the  house  echoed  in  astonishment 


"YOU  OUGHT  TO    KNOW." 


237 


"  Poor  deluded  child !"  said  he,  but  immediately 
afterward  hid  his  face  in  her  hair  and  shook  with 
a  heart-quaking  sob.  Having  got  the  better  of 
that,  he  raised  his  head  and  laughed  again.  "  Be- 
fore we  ring  the  bell  and  order  a  great  dinner  and 
make  an  occasion  of  my  wife's  coming  home,  I 
must  send  the  news  to  Tom." 

"  What  for?"  inquired  Tamsin. 

"  Because  I  agreed  to  telegraph  the  event  to 
him.  And  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  so  soon." 
His  eye  searched  the  littered  table  for  a  despatch- 
blank.  Tamsin  handed  him  the  required  slip,  pen 
and  ink,  and  his  tablets.  With  his  hand  poised 
to  write,  he  exclaimed,  looking  down  the  oval 
of  her  cheek,  "  Your  school !  I  had  forgotten 
that." 

"  Can't  I  go  on  here?" 

"  Certainly  you  can.     Under  my  own  eye." 

The  despatch  said, — 

"  DEAR  TOM, — My  wife  and  I  are  at  home  to- 
gether at  last.  Congratulate  us. 

"  CRAQUE-O'-DOOM." 

To  which  Captain  Mills,  in  a  few  days,  responded 
from  the  Pacific  coast, — 

"  Heaven  bless  you  both  ! 

"TOM." 


238    rf  CRAQUE-O"-DOOM. 

It  may  be  added  as  a  postscript  to  this  tale  that 
a  little  more  than  two  years  later  Captain  Mills 
replied  to  another  message  with  a  duplicate  of  the 
above  telegram,  and  an  addition. 

"  Heaven  bless  you  both,  and  Miss  Craque-o'- 
Doom  also.  I  send  cup  marked  '  Tillie.' 

"  TOM." 


THE  END. 


NEW   BOOKS  AND  NEW   EDITIONS. 

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310-318    SIXTH    AVENUE,  NEW    YORK. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  TENEMENTS. 

By  EDWARD  W.  TOWN  SEND,  author  of  the  famous 
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Commercial  Advertiser.  "  In  some  points  there  is  a  strong  resem- 
blance to  Dickens." — Atlanta  Constitution. 


EUNICE  QUINCE ;  A  New  England  Romance. 

By  DANE  CONYNGHAM,   i2mo;  362  pp;  paper,  jo 
cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

<(  npHIS  book,  we  are  glad  to  note,  is  now  issued  in  paper 
covers,  as  well  as  in  cloth.  The  story  of  Eunice  Quince 
meets  all  the  requirements  in  a  novel  calculated  to  bring  only 
enjoyment  and  refreshment.  One  delights  in  a  book  that  keeps 
him  entertained  from  first  to  last.  The  heroine  belongs  to  the 
"Brahmin  Caste,"  and  has  the  advantage  of  rich  Spanish  blood  in 
her  veins.  The  characters  introduced  are  portrayed  with  a  graphic 
oen,  and  the  book  occupies  a  front  place  among  the  notable  novels 
->£  New  England  Life." 


JILL,  A  London  Flower  Girl. 

A  Navel,  by  L.  T.  MEADE.  izmo;  279  pp;  paper,  50 
cents. 

,t  'T'HIS  is  a  novel  out  of  the  common  order.  The  book  is  one 
hard  to  lay  down  without  having  finished  the  story.  Jill  is 
i-oth  morally  and  physiologically  beautiful,  and  her  faithfulness  to 
hor  vows  is  sacred  to  her  i:»  spite  of  the  dictates  of  an  intense  love, 
she  would  have  sacrificed  her  life  for  her  word's  sake  but  for  the 
heroic  and  self-sacrificing  instinct  of  S.ilas  Lynn,  who  released  her. 
It  is  a  romance  of  humble  life  that  should  be  read  by  all  who  are 
exercised  by  sympathy  and  sentiment,  and  especially  by  those  who 
would  wed  a  woman  who  better  loves  another." 

LOU. 

A  Nov'l.  $y  AARON  VON  ROBERTS,  Translated 
frw  \he  German  by  JESSIE  HA  YNES.  i2mo;  263 
tf'  PaPeri  5°  cents- 

«  'TRANSLATED  into  English  the  German  novel  is  highly 
enjoyable  by  the  lover  of  strong  fiction.  As  'Lou'  is 
considered  to  be  one  of  this  able  author's  best  novels,  it  will 
undoubtedly  repay  the  time  and  currency  to  be  expended  in  its 
purchase  and  reading.  The  author  is  well-known  as  the  prize 
winner  in  an  important  literary  contest  in  Vienna,  in  1882,  when  his 
novel  'It,'  not  only  won  the  prize,  but  created  a  marked  sensation 
in  the  literary  circles  of  Germany.  His  'Revanche,'  'For  The 
Name's  Sake,'  and  other  popular  German  novels  have  also  brought 
him  increased  fame.  At  this  time  he  is  one  of  the  most  active  and 
rr^st  popular  of  the  novelists  of  Germany. 

«' Lou  '  is  a  story  of  great  interest  and  dramatic  force,  and  the. 
book  is  beautifully  printed  in  large  type,  on  excellent  paper." 

JOSHUA  WRAY. 

A  Novel,  by  HANS  STEVEXSON  BEATTIE.  tzmo. 

3°7  PP"'  PaP'-r'>  5°  f?nts, 

«  A  CCIDENTS,  surprises,  seduction,  murder,  vindication,  retri- 
•^^  bution,  reparation,  etc.,  are  salient  features  in  this  tragic 
novel,  which  is  written  with  a  plain  spoken  pen.  Those  who  can 
read  with  relish  the  well  laden  story  of  Joshua  Wray  will  find  that 
interest  increases  rapidly  with  the  page-turning  from  the  first  to 
the  end  of  the  volume." 


THE  GOLDEN  ROCK ;  A  Western  Story. 

By  LIEUT.  A'.  II.   JAYNE,   I2mo;  cloth,  313 pp.,  5* 
cents. 

u  '"PHIS  is  a  new  book  for  boys,  by  one  of  their  favorite  authors. 
The  narrative  is  founded  upon  facts  as  related  to  Lieut. 
Jayne  by  the  hero  of  the  story,  Richard,  or  rather  Dick  Stoddard,  as 
he  is  called  in  the  book.  The  titles  of  the  chapters  indicate  both 
the  character  and  the  locality  as  well  as  the  deep  interest  of  the 
volume:  Lost  and  Found  ;  'Diamond  Cut  Diamond;  The  Land  of 
Sioux  ;  A  Wonderful  Region  ;  A  Memorable  Night  ;  A  Timely  Res- 
cue ;  A  Storm  in  the  Northwest  ;  The  Trap'per's  Home  ;  Trapping 
for  Beavers;  A  Wonderful  Discovery;  Good  and  Bad  Fortune; 
Fighting  For  Life  ;  In  Despair ;  Without  a  Clew  ;  The  Young 
Captive  ;  Back  and  Forth  and  Back  Again  ;  Life  Among  the  Sioux  ; 
The  Flight  of  Dick  ;  Conclusion.  The  book  is  illustrated  with  full- 
page  illustrations.  It  will  no  doubt  be  eagerly  read  by  all  the  boys 
of  America  who  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  copies." 


TYPEE;  A  Real  Romance  of  the  South  Seas. 

By  HERMAN  MEL  VILLE.      i2tno  ;  389  pp.,  paper 
(illustrated),  jo  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

UT\  TELVILLE'S  '  Typee '  is  as  bewitching  a  book   as  De  Foe's 
« Robinson  Crusoe.'     It  gives  the  first  account  published  of 
life  among  the  natives  of  the  Polynesian  Islands,  and  there  are  some 
strange  things  in  the  book.     Says  the  author  in  the  preface: 

41  'There  are  some  things  in  the  narrative  which  will  sure  to 
appear  strange,  or  perhaps  entirely  incomprehensible  to  the  reader  ; 
but  they  cannot  appear  more  so  to  him  than  they  did  to  the  author  at 
the  time.  He  has  stated  matters  just  as  they  occurred,  and  leaves 
everyone  to  form  his  own  opinion  concerning  them.' 

"The  whole  narrative  is  interesting,  affecting  and  most  romantic. 
Don't  fail  to  read  '  Typee.' 

"The  present  edition  of  Melville's  romances,  now,  for  the  first 
time,  issued  in  paper  covers,  is  issued  under  the  judicious  editing 
of  Arthur  Stedman,  who  contributes  to  the  volume  (  Typee)  a  biog- 
raphy of  the  author,  and  other  introductory  matter.  He  has  wisely 
restored  some  passages  not  found  in  the  early  American  editions. 
They  were  stricken  out  lest  their  reference  to  the  failure  of  mission 
ary  enterprise  in  the  South  Seas  should  give  offence." 

(3) 


OMOO ;  A  Narrative  of  Adventures  In  the  South  Sea. 

By  HERMAN  MELVILLE.     121110;   365  pp.;  pap?r 
(illustrated)^  jo  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

u  HP  HIS  book,  now,  for  the  first  time,  issued  in  paper  covers,  as 
well  as  in  cloth,  supplies  a  sequel  to  the  author's  famous  'Typee.' 
It  necessarily  begins  where  '  Typee  '  concludes,  but  has  no  further 
connection  with  the  latter  work.  All  that  is  necessary  for  the  reader 
to  learn,  who  has  not  read  •  Typee,'  is  given  in  the  Introduction  to  • 
•Omoo.'  While  it  is  justly  said  of  « Typee '  that  the  book  is  as  valuable' 
ethnologically  as  it  is  interesting  to  the  lover  of  the  strange  and 
thrilling,  the  same  comment  will,  with  equal  veracity,  apply  to 
4  Omoo.'  The  typography,  the  illustrations,  the  paper,  and  the 
bindings,  are  all  of  the  first  class,  and  no  lover  of  the  strange  and 
true,  of  travel  and  adventure  told  in  classic  fiction  and  adapted  for 
enjoyment  by  readers  of  all  ages  and  classes,  should  fail  to  read 
each  one  of  Herman  Melville's  four  books:  'Typee,'  'Omoo,' 
•  White  Jacket,' and  '  Moby  Dick.'  There  are  no  better  sea  stories 
or  narratives  of  adventure  than  these  supply." 

WHITE  JACKET;  Or,  The  World  in  a  Man-Of-War. 

By   HERMAN  MELVILLE.     12 mo ;  374  pp.;  paper 
(illustrated),  jo  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

tt    'TMIIS  is  the  first  issue  in  paper  covers  of  this  valuable  book. 

'\VhiteJacket;  Or,  Life  in  a  Man  Of- War'  is  by  many  con- 
sidered to  be  Herman  Melville's  best  book.  In  1843  this  delight- 
fully interesting  author  shipped  as  ordinary  seaman  on  board  a 
United  States  frigate,  then  lying  in  a  harbor  of  the  Pacific  Ocean. 
After  remaining  in  this  frigate  for  more  than  a  year,  he  was  dis- 
charged Irom  the  service  upon  the  vessel  arriving  home.  His 
man-ot-war  experiences  and  observations  are  incorporated  in  tht 
present  volume.  His  pictures  of  life  in  the  forecastle,  and  his 
description  of  what  takes  place  in  the  various  sections  of  a  man-of-war 
are  not  only  instructive,  but  are  as  captivating  as  they  are  true, 
As  one  would  expect,  withal  the  discipline  and'essential  routine  of 
the  service,  the  book  teems  with  startling  incidents  and  accidents, 
boils  ovc-r  with  fun,  and  presents,  in  its  374  beautifully  printed 
paves,  facts  for  ph''osophers,  'pointers'  for  ethologists,  and  fas- 

reading  for  everybody." 

(4) 


MOBY  DICK;  Or  The  White  Whale. 

By  HERMAN  MELVILLE.       izmo  ;  jyj  //./  paper 
(iituslra.tt.itj,  jO  Cents  ;  cloth,  $f.oo. 

<t  '"PHIS   is   a    good   time   to   read   Herman  Melville's  delightful 
books,  and   'Moby   Dick ;  Or  The  White  Whale,' is  one  of 
intense   interest.     It    is    now,    for  the  first  time,   issued    in    paper 
covers.     It  verifies  the  truth  of  the  old  song  : 

Oh,  the  rare  old  whale,  'mid  storm  and  gale, 
In  his  ocean  home  will  be 
A  giant  in  might,  where  might  is  right, 
And  King  of  the  boundless  sea. 

"The  habits,  life  history,  and  sensational  death  of  the  great  white 
whale,  whose  skeleton  was  found  to  measure  seventy. two  feet,  are 
told  in  an  absorbing  manner  in  this  excellent  volume,  whose  literary 
merits  are  of  the  highest  order.  One  of  the  many  interesting  feat- 
ures of  the  book  is  the  faithful  representation  it  affords  of  seafaring 
men  of  different  nationalities.  In  one  instance  we  find,  working 
together  in  the  same  night  watch,  sailors  from  France,  Spain,  Den- 
mark, England,  China,  Iceland— and  Long  Island.  Their  sea  chants 
and  ship  parlance  are  given  in  English  and  afford  the  reader  a  study 
in  rhetoric. 

"The  book  is  printed  in  large  type,  on  excellent  paper,  and  is 
enjoyable,  with  equal  relish,  by  both  old  and  young  readers.  Its 
interest  is  increased  by  its  excellent  full  page  illustrations.  At  the 
close  of  the  book  are  several  pages  of  extracts  from  the  writings  of 
various  authors  having  reference  to  the  whale." 

THE  CUBAN  LIBERATED ;  Or  Saved  by  the  Sword, 

A  Novel,  l>y  ROBERT  REXDALE  (Rc-issmd}.   121110; 
22b  pp.;  paper,  jo  cents. 

u  r"TMIIS  is  a  story  of  1869,  portraying  marital  jealousies,  and  pre 
senting  kaleidescopic  views  of  American,  English,  Spanish 
and  Cuban  types  of  character.  It  portrays  the  persevering  pluck  of 
the  Cuban  spirit  and  speculates  as  to  the  outcome  of  the  chronic 
Spanish-Cuban  difficulties.  The  language  of  the  book  is  simple  and 
unaffected.  A  silken  thread  of  romance  is  woven  in  its  pages. 
Added  to  its  commendable  features  are  the  facts  that  one  can, 
without  effort,  lay  down  the  book  at  an  instant's  notice,  and  take  it 
up  again  as  willingly  when  opportunity  presents  itself." 

(5) 


CHRISTINE. 

A   Navel,    by   ADELINE    SERGEANT.      r2mo.    32$ 
PP-i  Pap<-ri  50  ceitls. 

tt  '  I  "HIS  new,  paper-covered  edition  of  '  Christine  '  will  be  appre- 
ciated  everywhere  by  the  many  readers  of  Adeline  Ser- 
geant's books.  Let  the  reader  follow  (  in  the  book  )  the  romance 
of  the  volume,  and  he  will  be  rewarded.  Let  us  point  the  way — the 
quoted  phrases  are  titles  of  some  of  the  consecutive  chapters: 
•Uncle  Tom  '  will  introduce  him  to  'Christine,'  next  the  reader  will 
pass  through  '  the  shadow  of  a  dream  '  and  arrive  at  '  Col.  Lingard's 
house'  listen  to  'the  Colonel's  plans,'  and  discover  that  some  one  is 
being 'spied  upon."  Next  he  will  meet  'Miss  Daisy  Touchwood,' 
one  of  the  prominent  characters  of  the  book.  'Mr.  lloskins  remon- 
strates,' but  '  a  strange  welcome"  is  afforded.  '  New  friends '  next 
appear,  and  a 'proposal  of  marriage '  is  made  'in  the  moonlight.' 
Near  by,  'only  next  door '  'a  revelation.'  'at  midnight,'  is  made. 
After  'missing  a  train,'  the  reader  is  startled  by  a  'great  surprise,' 
and  begins  to  contemplate  'the  return  journey.'  Just  then  'an 
accusation"  leads  to  'a  great  temptation,'  but  'a  loyal  heart,' dis- 
tinguishes between  'light  and  darkness."  'Mr.  lloskins  to  the 
rescue  '  precedes  the  exacting  of  a  'promise  me,'  and  'deliver  us 
from  evil '  is  the  prayer  that  breaks  in  upon  •  the  memory  of  the 
just'  at  the  end.  It  will  repay  the  reader  to  fill  in  between  the 
lines  by  reading  the  novel." 

THE  KING'S  DAUGHTERS. 

A    Romanes,  by   ELLEN  E.  DICKINSON  (Re-issued), 
i zmo;  27  j pp.;  (illustrated),  paper,  jo  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

U   '  I  "HIS  volume  is  one  of  particular  interest  to  all  concerned  for 

the  welfare  of  that  praiseworthy  organization  known  as  'The  \ 
King's  Daughters.'  All  through  the  book  much  truth  is  told,  to  which 
no  exceptions  can  honestly  be  taken.  An  Auti  Gossiping  Society  is 
advocated  by  the  author,  who  deals  some  trenchant  blows  in  various 
directions  among  the  'upper  ten.'  Society  girls,  as  such,  also  come 
in  for  their  share  of  attention  by  way  of  sundry  lessons  reflecting 
on  their  behavior.  The  story  unfolds  no  little  romance,  and  must 
leave  its  impression  on  the  reader.  The  book  is  beautifully  printed 
in  large  clear  type  and  contains  twt-lve  full-page  half-tone  en- 
gravings." 


THE  LITTLE  MINISTER. 

A  Novel,  by  J.  M.  BARRIE.  12*10.;  paper,  (illus. 
trated),  jo  cents ;  cloth,  gilt  top,  75  cents;  cloth,  illus. 
trated,  $1.25;  Kirrienmir  edition,  illustrated,  2  vols., 
gilt  top,  8vo.,  $2.50.  Edition  de  Luxe,  illustrated,  with 
a  duplicate  set  of  etchings,  etc.,  two  vols.,  8vo.,  $12.00 

ti  A  GREAT  novel" — Philadelphia  Tress.  l'A  remarkable  book" 
^*"  — Buffalo  Commercial.  "  Charming  " — Godey's  Mtgazine. 
"Undoubtedly  a  literary  gem  " — Chicago  Herald.  "One  of  the  most 
attractive  pieces  of  fiction" — P.iblic  Opinion.  "Symbolical  of  all 
that  is  sweet,  pathetic  and  delightful  in  literature  " — San  Francisco 
Call.  "  It  is  unique,  wonderfully  human  " — New  York  Delineator. 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  POWYSLAND. 

A  Novel,  by  GRANT  ALLEN.     i2tno.\  333 pp.;  Paper, 
50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

ti  r  I  "HOSE  who  have  not  read  Grant  Allen's  'Duchess  of  Powys- 
land,'  of  which  a  paper  covered  edition  is  now  issued, 
should  do  so.  The  operation  of  the  Criminal  Courts  of  London  in 
the  curious  case  of  the  Duchess  affords  a  remarkably  strong  illus- 
tration of  the  possibilities  and  probabilities  as  regards  the  real 
facts  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Florence  Maybrick,  who  remains  im- 
prisoned there  ;  while  many  thousands  of  Americans  believe  her 
positively  innocent  of  the  charge  of  murder  for  which  she  suffers. 
Nor  does  the  story  reflect  favorably  upon  the  continued  refusal  of 
the  English  officials  either  to  make  or  receive  further  reports 
upon,  or,  in  any  way,  or  upon  any  grounds  whatever,  entertain 
new  evidence  in  the  case.  The  trials  of  the  Ameriqan  heiress  who 
marries  the  English  Duke  for  his  title,  affords  both  warning  to  the 
adventuresome,  and  encouragement  to  the  more  prudent  a:id 
patriotic  among  our  daughters.  The  phase  of  hereditary  insanity 
which  manifests  itself  in  every  member  of  a  family,  and  that  in 
only  one  characteristic  strait,  namely,  suicide,  is  strange  and 
affords  an  incentive  to  profitable  thought  and  study. 

"Dramatic  situations,  crime  and  virtue,  plot,  dialogue  and  dis- 
criptions,  combine  to  make  this  book  fascinating." 

(71 


TALES  OF  SOLDIERS  ATJD  CIVILIANS. 

By  AMBROSE  BIEKCE.   i2ino.\   joo  //.;  paper,  jo 

cents.;  cloth,  $1.00. 

a  *T*HE  most  competent  critics  declare  it  ['Tales  o£  Soldiers  and 
A  Civilians']  a  greater  book  than  '  The  Red  Badge  of  Cour- 
age." 'Tales  of  Soldiers  and  Civilians'  is  an  extraordinary  book. 
The  abuse  it  will  receive  from  those  who  are  not  competent  to 
appreciate  its  extraordinary  power  will  be  as  gratifying  to  the  auth- 
Dr  as  will  be  the  praise  it  certainly  will  receive  from  those  who  are." 


SUNSET  PASS;  Or,  Running  the  Gaunlet  Through 

Apache  Land. 

By  CAPT.  CHARLES  KING,     i2mo.\  203 pp.;  (illus- 
trated), paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $soo. 

u  'T* HERE  is  no  better  writer  of  realistic  military  fiction  from  a 
'Far  \Vest'  point  of  view  than  ("apt  King,  who  was  an 
officer  of  the  U.  S.  Cavalry,  and  of  Artillery.  He  knows  whereof  he 
writes.  '  Sunset  Pass '  is  a  typical  spirited  story  ;  one  that  is  en- 
joyable by  young  and  old.  Th'J  book  is  illustrated  with  about 
twenty  full-page  pictures." 

A  DEBT  OF  HONOR. 

By   MABEL    COLLINS,      izmo.    220  pp.;  paper,   jo 

cents  ;  cloth,  $ i.oo. 

«  "T^EPTH  of  feeling,  subtlety  of  analysis,  and  character  study, 
"^>^  qualities  and  exercises  essential  in  a  literary  theosophist, 
and  in  which  this  authoress  excels,  render  good  service  to  her  pen 
in  the  field  of  fiction.  Her  novel  'A  Debt  of  Honor,'  a  new  edition 
of  which  is  issued  in  paper  covers,  is,  it  maybe  said,  her  best  book. 
.Smiles  and  tears  commingle  and  chase  each  other  in  its  pages  and 
reflect  themselves  in  the  faces  of  its  readers." 


AS  THE  WIND  BLOWS. 

A  .V.'zv/,  by  ELEANOR  MERRON.     i2»io.;  320  pp.; 
paper,  jo  cents ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

it  r|T*HIS  book  is  issued  in  paper  covers  for  the  first  time.  The 
volume  tells  the  story  of  the  lives  of  several  young  women 
of  exemplary  character,  also  that  of  others  of  the  reverse,  all  of 
whose  lives  are  tossed  hither  and  thither  by  circumstances,  or  fate, 
whatever  that  may  beormean,  even  as  theautumnal  leaves  are  scat- 
tered by  the  winds.  The  male  characters  of  the  story  are  alike  conspic- 
uous for  their  vicissitudinous  experiences,  and  it  is  both  interesting 
and  educating  to  watch  them  closely.  The  book  is  suggestive,  and 
thought  inspiring  and  the  interest  of  the  story  is  powerful  and  strong." 

(8) 


Secret  of  IHarcissc. 

A  Romance.  7>V  EDMUND  GOSSE,  author  of  "  Gossip 
in  a  Library,"  "On  Viol  and  Flute,1''  etc.  \2.mo,  cloth,  gilt 
$1.00. 

"  A    ROMANCE  of  the  sixteenth  century.     The  time  and  scene  admit 
'*     of  a  high  degree  of  color;  and  this  the  author  has  given  his  story. 
Its  literary  excellence  is  exceptional." — Boston  Courier. 

"A  story  not  only  cleverly  imagined  but  carefully  worked  out.  It 
has  mediaeval  colorings,  dark  shadows,  and  vivid  flashes.  The  Secret 
of  Narcisse  is  a  little  masterpiece . " — New  York  Times. 


ZTbe  penance  of  jportia 

By  7  ASM  A,  author  of  "  Uncle  Piper  of  Piper's  Hill," 
"A  Sydney  Sovereign,"  etc.  Belniore  Series,  paper  yx.\ 
also,  \2nio,  cloth  $I.OO. 

"'"THE  new  novel  by  'Tasma'  is  thoroughly  readable;  it  has  the  freedom 
*  and  breadth  of  touch  that  prove  the  author  has  seen  and  known 
thj  world  beyond  the  sound  of  the  bells  of  her  native  town.  The  theme 
of  the  novel  is  serious,  but  quite  within  the  scope  of  the  material  of 
fiction;  it  is  treated  with  a  light  and  skilful  hand,  and  it  fully  attains 
effectiveness  and  interest." — Boston  Literary  World. 


of  a  1Robofc\>* 

By    GEORGE    GROSSMITH  and    WEEDON  GROS- 
SMITH.     Illustrated,  121110,  cloth  $1.00;  paper  50^. 

""THE  humor  which  enlivens  the  faithful  record  of  the  sayings  and  doingsf 
and  no  less  the  emotions,  of  Mr.  Charles  Footer  is  irresistible,  and 
the  book  furnishes  some  very  bright  and  lively  reading  for  Summer  days. 
Mr.  Grossmith's  mirth,  as  all  the  theatre-going  world  knows,  is  very 
contagious,  and  Weedon  Grossmith's  nimble  pencil  is  aptness  itself 
in  catching  his  brother's  subtle  humor.  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  th« 
book, 


flDr.  Witt's  Mibow. 


A  Frivolous  Tah-  By  ANTHONY  HOPE,  author  of 
"  Th*  Prisoner  oj  Ztvttfa,"  '  '  Father  Stafford,"  etc.  I2mo, 
cloth  $i  oo  ;  pap^r  500. 


"  '  A/TR'  *Viif3  iviti<ni>  is-  i:i  truth  a  brilliant  little  tale.  This  com- 
***  mendation  is  justified  by  a  style  at  oncceasy  and  terse,  by  t'vj  wit 
of  the  dialogue,  and  by  the  good  humor  of  the  satire  "  —  Loncrn  T.ntcs. 

"The  climax  of  the  story  is  full  of  the  charm  of  the  unexpected. 
The  characters  are  neatly  sketched  and  the  author's  dialogue  is  cri.  p  and 
pointed.  Altogether,  this  lively  and  piquant  story  is  gocd  reading  "  — 
Saturday  Review. 

"The  manner  is  ahviys  that  of  comedy,  and  while  the  intrigue  is 
closely  knit,  the  book  is  most  enjoyable  for  its  delightful  characters  of 
men  and  women  of  the  world.  From  first  to  la^t  the  story  is  keenly  and 
quietly  amusing."  —  Scotsman. 


1bo\x>  Xifcc  a  Moman. 

By   FLORENCE  MARRYAT,  author  of  "  There  is 
Death,"   "  The  Risen  Dead,"  etc.   \2rno,  cloth  $1.00  ;    pa 


"  T  TOW  Like  a  Woman  is  a  story  without  other  purpose  than  the  legit- 
•^  Imate  one  in  fiction,  to  delight  and  amuse  the  reader.  It  makes 
most  acceptable  summer  novel,  the  plot  being  interesting  and  the  story 
delightfully  written.  It  narrates  the  history  of  a  charming  but  wayward 
heiress  —  ward  though  only  in  name  —  to  two  old  titled  guardians,  one  of 
whom  is  a  source  of  worry  to  the  young  lady.  This  guardian  resorts  to 
all  sorts  of  manoeuvres  to  keep  the  heroine  in  check  and  above  all  to 
prevent  her  from  marrying,  as  he  fears  she  will  do,  beneath  her.  But  the 
young  lady  has  a  will  of  her  own,  and  when  she  meets  her  fate,  sets  every- 
one at  defiance  in  gratifying  her  own  taste  and  predilection  in  a  lover. 
The  lover  is  an  artist,  but  presumably  of  no  family,  and  the  heroine  has 
herself  a  rooted  dislike  of  a  mesalliance,  which  causes  her  to  play  fa^t 
and  loose  with  her  own  feelings.  The  latter,  however,  happily  asse.  t  them- 
selves, and  in  the  proper  direction,  and  the  story  closes  delightfully,  the 
artist  turning  out  to  be  of  good  birth,  and  the  equal  socially  of  the 
heroine  he  marries.  " 


<$>f  tbc  Worto, 

By  MRS.  FORRESTER,  author  of  "  Dearest,"  etc.  \2rno, 
do  h  Si.oo;  paper  50*  . 

'"TTHE  subject  of  Mrs.  Forrester's  new  novel  is  hardly  original;  but 
the  book  is  pleasantly  written,  and  occasionally  shows  signs  of 
delicate  observation.  The  machinations  of  a  society  siren,  the  perils  of  ths 
honorable  young  man  whom  she  had  jilted  on  account  of  his  poverty  in 
days  gone  by,  but  had  not  forgotten,  his  final  recognition  of  her  worth- 
lessness,  and  the  triumph  of  a  charming  young  girl,  are  familiar  themes 
enough.  They  are  set  forth  in  this  instance  with  a  certain  charm  and 
freshness.  Mrs.  Forrester  shows  to  advantage  when  dealing  with  simple, 
honest,  and  upright  people,  who,  however,  are  not  so  easily  made  inter- 
esting as  our  author  contrives  to  make  them  interesting."  —  The  Athen- 


By  the  same  Auth^/'. 

Nearest 

By    MRS.    FORRESTER,    author    of    "  Of  the 
Worldly."     I2mo,  cloth  $I.OO  ;  paper  50^. 

A  SIMPLE  delightful  story,  which  may  confidently  be  commended  to 
•**•  every  novel  reader.  It  is  written  in  the  sprightly  manner  and  with 
the  enchaining  qualities  characteristic  of  its  popular  authoress. 

Dearest  is  a  novel  in  Mrs.  Forrester's  earlier  and  better  manner.  The 
story,  which  is  simply  and  naturally  told,  narrates  the  experiences  of  a 
young  girl  in  subjection  to  an  obnoxious  governess  and  to  a  mother  who 
favors  her  elder  daughters  and  treats  the  defiant  one  harshly.  The  young 
girl's  cause  is  taken  up  by  a  step  -brother  whom  the  mother  fears,  and  a 
new  governess  comes  upon  the  scene  to  make  interesting  complications 
in  the  family  circle  and  change  the  situation  of  the  once  hapless  but  now 
triumphant  Cinderella.  Dearest  is  one  of  the  most  charming  novels  of 
the  day,  and  is  sure  to  win  its  way  to  success. 

Gbe  Wrono  £bat  Mae  2>one. 

By  F.  W.  ROBINSOA',  Author  of  "  The  Keeper  of  the 
Keys,"  "  Our  Erring  Brother,  etc.  Belmore  Series,  fafif 
$oc;  also,  I2tno,  doth  $i  oo. 

"  '"THIS  story  of  an  elderly  man's  love  which  turns  out  happily  in  the  end. 
»  is  related  with  the  skill  of  a  practiced  writer  of  fiction,  and  the 

interest  is  well  sustained   throughout.     The  characters  are  naturally  pre- 

sented and  the  incidents  are  ^citing  without  being  over-sensational."  — 

Boston  Gazette, 


l*  (Brace. 

By  W.  E.  MORRIS,  author  of  "•  M,itrimonyt"  "  No  Name," 
eic.    i2/>u>,  doth,  orna»ic-itial,  Sl.oo  ;  paper  $Oc. 

\4f*    NORRIS  has  never  had  a  happier  thought  for  a  novel,  nor  worked 
'         out  his  Idei  mo.  e  felicitously,  than  in  this  bright  story. 
His  Grit, •«  V  ^icverly  written,  and  is  a  thoroughly  picturesque  and  spark* 
ling  nove». 


Salamni&c. 

3r   GLSTASE   FLAUBERT.     Englished  by  M.  French 
Shelusu.     Illustrated.     I2mo,  t folk  $1.2$  ;  paper  yac. 

"THE  fascination  ha^  long  been  acknowledged  of  that  masterpiece  of 
•*  French  historic  realism,  Flaubert's  Salaminbo.  M.  Duruy,  the  great 
y'rench  historian  and  miniate,  of  education,  has  warmly  eulogized  the 
work  and  admitted  the  fidelity  v»ith  which  the  novelist  nas  delineated  the 
period.  The  story  deals  with  Cai  chage  at  the  time  of  the  First  Punic  War, 
with  the  sensuously  depicted  daugluir  of  Hamilcar,  the  great  Carthagenian 
General,  with  the  revolt  of  the  barba.  '-»a  soldiery  who  were  employed  as 
mercenaries  against  the  Roman  legions,  xx1.  .vuh  the  defiled  shrines  of 
Phoenician  gods  and  their  votaries. 


Cower  of  Safcbeo. 

By  "OUIDA,"  author  of  "  Two  £*it  '_•  W^oih-n  Shots,"  etc. 
\2»ti>,  cloth  $1 .00  ;  paper  50^. 

\17HEN  "Ouida"  cares  to  step  aside  from  he.  beaten  track,  no  one 
*  can  write  a  prettier  story,  or  one  more  overhow'ing  with  love  and 
tenderness.  T'Ju-  Tower  of  Taddeo  is  in  her  lx?st  manner,  the  manner 
that  gave  us  Ht-of,  I'ipistrello,  and  A  Leaf  in  the  Sty  fin.  It  is  a  pathetic 
story  of  an  old  bookseller  who,  having  no  idea  of  money,  gathers  treasures 
of  old  books,  which,  with  the  extravagance  of  an  ungrateful  and  wild  son, 
ruins  him.  He  has  a  daughter  who  lives,  loves  and  cares  for  him.  who 
becomes  betrothed  to  a  poor  artist.  It  is  a  story  of  simple,  trusting 
ignorance  on  the  one  hand,  and  grasping  dishonesty  on  the  other,  and 
while  for  so  simple  a  tale,  without  dramatic  interesf,  it  is  rather  long 
drawn  out,  it  is  a  beautiful  story  and  written  as  only  a  writer  like  Ouida 
can  write. 


ZTbc  ©R>  nfcaib's  Club. 


.ffy  /.  ZANGWILL,  author  of  "The  Master,"  "  The 
Bachelor's  Club"  "  The  Big  Bow  Mystery,  "  etc.  With 
illustrations  .  \2rno,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25  ;  paper  50*. 

HTHE  author,  Israel  Zangwill,  is  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  promising 
*  young  writers  of  the  day—  a  new  Disraeli  in  the  boldness  a:.d 
brilliancy  of  his  fancy.  The  book  is  profusely  and  handsomely  iilustraied 
by  F.  H.  Townsend,  and  is  one  of  the  most  delicious  literary  conceits  of 
recent  years.  The  story  of  The  Old  Maid's  Club,  which  is  indeed 
intended  to  be  a  club  ot  young,  beautiiul,  and  wealthy  women—  the  cold- 
blooded austerity  of  its  exclusiveness,  its  inflexible  conditions  of  member- 
ship, its  relentless  by-laws,  the  thrilling  adventures  which  overtake  its 
would-be  members,  its  extraordinary  ending  —  the  story  of  these  must  be 
studied  at  length  in  the  book  itself,  which  is  absolutely  unique  in  its  way. 


Experiences  of  a  Xafcp  1belp. 

By  JOHN  STRANGE  WINTER,  author  of  "Bootless 
Baby ,"  "  Regimental Legends"  "Army  Tales"  etc.  I2mo, 
doth  $1.00  ;  paper  $oc. 

'""THE  heroine,  who    tells  the  story,  is  admirably   depicted,  and  the 
*      characters  throughout  are  drawn  with  skill  and  a  keen  knowledge 
of  the  lighter  phases  of  human  nature.     It   is  the  best  and    the  most 
ambitious  of  its  author's  novels." — Boston  Gazette. 


jfor  tbe  Sake  of  tbe  Jfamity. 

By  MA  Y  CROMMELIX,  author  of''  Goblin  Gold,"  «'  Tht 
Freaks  r-f  Lady  Fortune"  etc.      \2nio.  cloth   $1.00;    pa  pel 

y*. 

"A    SIMPLE,  unaffected  novel  in  these  days  of  sensational  rubbish  is 
**     refreshing.     This  tale  of  English  life  is  of  that  description  ;  the  plot 
is  well  constructed  the  character-drawing  good,  and  the  diction  excellent. " 
— Detroit  Commercial  Advertiser. 


c  Ibcritagc  of  tbc  Ikurts. 

From  the  Nonoegian  of  BJORNSTJERNE  BJORNSOX, 
with  introduction  by  E~dmund  Gosse.  \2rno,  cloth  $1.00  ; 
fa  per  5  or. 

'  :  A  POWERFUL  as  well  as  a  fascinating  book.      The  mere  outline  of  the 
**    story  can  give  no  idea  of  the  subtle  psychology,  of  the  descriptive 
force,  of  the  underlying  poetry  which  it  contains."  —  Fall  Mall  Gazette. 

T'le  H.-ritage  of  the  Kurts  can  hardly  be  said  to  b;  pleasant  reading. 
It  is  a  grim  story,  full  of  dark  shadows  that  form  the  setting  of  strong 
-ituatior.s  vividly  and  realistically  portrayed.  The  motive  of  the  story 
»v—  ins  to  be  to  trace  the  influence  of  heredity,  and  this  is  done  with  great 
power  and  an  infinite  knowledge  of  human  nature  as  exemplified  in  a 
variety  of  strongly  conceived  characters  under  the  influence  of  environ- 
ment. The  novel  makes  large  demands  upon  the  reader's  attention,  which 
is  amply  repaid  by  the  author's  marvellous  powers  of  description  and 
dramatic  skill  in  the  working  out  of  the  plot. 


A  Satirical  Study.     By  PERCY  WHITE,  editor  of  London 
"Public  Opinion."     I2mo,  cloth  $1.00  ;  paper  50*-. 
"  A  CLEVER,  amusing,  but  audacious  book."  —  London  Times. 

**  "  Bright,  fresh,  vigorous  in  action,  and  told  with  a  wealth  of  incident 
and  humor."—  London  Literary  World. 

4  'The  book  teems  with  smart  sayings  and  graphic  characterizations, 
And  cannot  fail  to  make  a  mark  among  the  cleverest  novels  of  the  year."— 
London  Daily  Telegraph. 

"  This  is  distinctly  a  book  to  be  read.  It  has  quite  a  new  flavor  in 
fiction.  As  a  study  of  a  snob,  it  merits  a  place  beside  the  ever  fresh 
pictures  of  Tnackeray.  " 

Gbe  1Rew  IRector. 

By  STANLEY  J.   WEYMAN,  author  of  "A   Gentleman 
of  France  ,"  etc.      \2rno,  cloth  $l.oo  ;  paper  5OC. 

A  CLERICAL  comedy  of  errors,  told  with  all  the  liveliness  and  literary 
"*•     skill  of  this  clever  new  writer. 

"  The  N<rw  Rector  is  well  written,  and  in  every  essential  feature  very 
readable—  even  charming  —  in  its  characterizations  and  descriptions.  The 
portraiture  of  the  young  rector  is  excellent,  the  difficulties  he  encounters 
and  overcomes  are  quite  interesting  ;  the  gosfip  is  clean,  and  the  lov« 
scenes  are  conceived  in  good  taste."  —  Church  Union. 


a  OLittlc  Moribund. 

By  L.  C.  ELLSWORTH,  author  of  "  Furor*  Amati,"  etc. 
etc.     Ilmo,  paper  50*. 

American  Authors'  Series. 

'  ""PHIS  is  a  novel  well  entitled  to  place  in  the  front  rank  of  current  imag- 
*•  inative  literature.  There  is  not  an  uninteresting  paragraph  within 
the  covers  of  the  book,  the  story  being  told  with  a  charming  grace  of 
"iction,  and  the  characters  are  attractive  by  reason  of  their  naturalness." 
— Brooklyn  Standard  Union. 


of  SolMers  anfc  Civilians, 

By  AMBROSE  BIERCE.     izmo,  cloth  $i .00  ;  paper  yx. 
American  Authors'    Series. 

A  COLLECTION  of  weird,  pathetic,  and  blood-curdling  stories  that  will 
•**•  be  read  with  avidity  not  only  by  the  seekers  after  novelty,  but  by  the 
more  critical  readers  who  appreciate  literary  merit.  Mr.  Bierce  has  no 
peer  in  his  peculiar  vein  of  satire,  and  his  works  will  undoubtedly  be- 
come classic. 


Cbe  Commodore's  Bau^bters. 

From  the  Norwegian  of  JONAS  LIE,  with  introduction  by 
Edmund  Gosse,  author  of  "  Tht  Secret  of  Narcisse,"  etc. 
I2mo,  cloth  $1.00  ;  paper  ysc. 

A  REALLY  delightful  novel  of  domestic  life  in  Scandinavia.  It  is  the 
'  *  antithesis  of  the  psychological  stories  and  dramas  we  have  been 
taught  to  look  for  in  such  Norwegian  writers  as  Bjornson  and  Ibsen. 
It  has  a  simple  but  most  interesting  plot,  and  is  naturally  told.  It  portrays 
'he  home  life  of  an  old  Commodore's  family  at  a  Norway  seaport  and 
naval  station  — a  life  of  quiet  incidents,  chequered  love-making,  and 
thwarted  ambitions.  The  characters  are  capitally  drawn  and  enchain  the 
interest  of  the  reader.  The  ending  is  sad,  but  consistent  with  the  purpoao 
•be  clever  novelist  has  had  in  view. 


Strutbers  ;  anb  tbc  Coined  of  tbc  Abashed 
fBMtsicians. 

By  ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD,  author  of  "Three  Normandy 
Inns"  etc.      \2ino,  cloth  $1.00;  or  in  fafet  ,  illuminated  cor,r 


"•  A     STORY  of  Anglomania   and  of  lord    hunting,  with   a    fresh   and 
**     charming  treatment.  ''  —  Ar.   Y,  Sun. 

"An  entertaining  satire  on  New  York  society  aspirations,  and  a 
charniing  study  of  a  wife  who  passes  through  a  trying  social  ordeal,  while 
her  husband  aspires  to  become  an  Anglo-American  aristocrat." 


princes  of  peele. 

By  WILLIAM  WESTALL,  author  of  "The  Old  Factory  ," 
"  The  Phantom  City,"  etc.  \2tno,  flo'h,  ornamental  Si.  GO; 
paper  50^. 

JV/lR.  WILLIAM  \\ESTALL  has  won  for  himself  as  a  story-teller  a 
*  *  position  which  is  peculiarly  his  own  ;  few  romance  writers  of  the  day 
are  equally  successful  in  developing  plots  at  once  natural,  effective  and 
strong.  The  I'rincts  of  Pet  le  is  a  tale  of  English  domestic  life,  abounding 
in  dramatic  situations,  and  full  of  movement  and  life.  There  are  several 
exciting  sporting  scenes,  and  the  denouement  takes  place  on  the  battlefield 
of  Gettysburg. 


T1u>u»and.    New  Revised  Edition  of 

Gbc  Xittlc  Minister. 

By  y.  M.  BARRIE.  Cloth  tl.2$\  paper  50*-.  Century  S,~ries, 
cloth,  gilt  top,  without  illustrations,  75  tt-nls.  /•'/  o  11  IIKV 
plates,  with  ten  full-page  illustrations,  and  containing  i/u 
author  s  latest  corrections  and  revisions. 


NEW   YORK 

AMERICAN   PUBLISHERS   CORPORATION 
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